ce  15  ar 


oN%BBi 

OF 


Round  the  World 
In  any  number  of  days 


MY   TICKET    IS    FOR   NEW   ZEALAND    (page  4) 


ROUND  THE  WORLD  IN 
ANY  NUMBER  OF  DAYS 

By  Maurice  Baring 


ILLUSTRATED  BY  B.  T.  B.,  VINCENT  LYNCH 
AND  WALTER  J.  ENRIGHT 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 

HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 
ftitoetfibe  $re&  Cambriboe 
1914 


COPYRIGHT,   1914,  BY  MAURICE  BARING 
ALL   RIGHTS   RESERVED 

Published  October  ig/4 


Contents 

INTRODUCTORY i 

TILBURY:  JUNE  21 3 

BAY  OF  BISCAY:  JUNE  24 n 

GIBRALTAR:  JUNE  28 14 

NAPLES:  JUNE  29 15 

PORT  SAID  :  JULY  3 22 

THE  RED  SEA:  IN  JULY 26 

THE  GULF  OF  ADEN:  JULY 34 

THE  INDIAN  OCEAN:  DURING  THE  MONSOON 46 

CEYLON:  JULY 51 

FROM  COLOMBO  TO  FREMANTLE  :  JULY 57 

FREMANTLE:  JULY 68 

ADELAIDE:  JULY 71 

MELBOURNE:  JULY 76 

SYDNEY:  AUGUST  2 77 

ON  BOARD  THE  MAUNGANUI  :  AUGUST 82 

WELLINGTON:  AUGUST  10 102 

NEAR  PALMERSTON:  AUGUST  20 106 

WELLINGTON :  SEPTEMBER in 

RORATONGA  AND  TAHITI:  SEPTEMBER 117 

ACROSS  THE  PACIFIC:  SEPTEMBER  21- OCTOBER  3.    .    .    .138 

SAN  FRANCISCO:  OCTOBER  3 144 

NEW  YORK:  OCTOBER 173 


M755380 


Illustrations 

MY  TICKET  is  FOR  NEW  ZEALAND    (page  4)    .    .   Frontispiece 

THE  STEWARDS 4 

NAPLES  —  THREE  IMPRESSIONS .  16 

FROM  SHIP'S  MUSIC,  AS  A  RULE,  ONE  CAN  WITHDRAW  ONE'S 

ATTENTION  WITHOUT  DIFFICULTY 36 

IF  G.  K.  CHESTERTON  HAD  BEEN  AN  AUSTRALIAN  ...  42 

"THERE  is  NOTHING  so  ROMANTIC  AS  FOOD" 62 

IN  SYDNEY  I  FOUND  THE  MEN  IN  THE  BOOKSTORES  ABNOR- 
MALLY INTELLIGENT 78 

"You  MUSTN'T  THINK  OF  A  GREEN  HORSE" 90 

A  WELLINGTON  MAN  TURNING  A  STREET  CORNER  .  .  .102 
A  GREAT  QUANTITY  OF  NATIVES  SWARM  ON  BOARD  .  .  .  I2O 
VERY  FEW  WRITERS  THINK  WHEN  THEY  ARE  WRITING  .  148 

THE  ONLY  HANSOM  CAB  IN  LONDON 158 

ANOTHER  TURN  OF  THE  SCREW  AND  HE  WOULD  BREAK  DOWN  176 

UNDRESSING  IN  THE  BERTH  OF  AN  AMERICAN  CAR  is  AN  ACRO- 
BATIC FEAT 184 

THEIR  WHOLE  BUSINESS  is  TO  STEAL  OTHER  PEOPLE'S  BAG- 
GAGE   188 

TRYING  TO  GET  A  NUMBER  AT  THE  HOTEL  CECIL     .    .    .192 


ROUND  THE  WORLD    IN 
ANY  NUMBER  OF   DAYS 

I  BELIEVE  there  is  a  school  of  people  who 
say  the  world  is  flat.  I  asked  H.  G.  Wells 
(who  ought  to  know)  whether  the  world  was  flati 
He  said  he  thought  it  improbable  (mark  the  scep- 
ticism of  H.  G.  Wells!),  but  he  said  the  proofs 
generally  given  of  the  world's  roundness  were 
bosh.  The  dogmas  of  science  go  round  and  round, 
from  reaction  to  progress,  and  from  progress  to 
reaction,  like  the  dogmas  of  medicine.  One  has 
only  to  remain  very  conservative  to  find  one's 
self  a  revolutionary.  "  But,"  some  one  may  say, 
"whether  the  world  is  round  and  you  are  going 
round  it,  or  whether  it  is  flat  and  you  are  going 
across  (or  along?)  it,  that  is  no  reason  for  de- 
scribing your  voyage  —  nowadays  a  hackneyed 
affair;  you  might  just  as  well  describe  a  journey 
round  the  Place  de  la  Concorde  or  Trafalgar 
Square." 


Round  the  World 


My  answer  to  this  is,  I  might.  But  all  journeys 
differ  with  the  differing  traveler.  I  write  partly 
to  please  myself,  partly  in  the  hope  of  pleasing 
others,  and  partly  in  the  hope  (a  pious  hope)  of 
gain. 


Tilbury:  June  21 

THERE  is  a  dock-strike  going  on:  but  the  lead- 
ers say  this  has  been  defeated;  the  newspapers 
say  it  is  over.  I  reach  Tilbury  Docks  by  noon  of 
Friday,  June  21.  There,  evidences  of  a  strike  are 
manifest  in  the  shape  of  a  local  body  of  special 
police.  The  porter  who  wheels  my  luggage 
points  them  out  and  alludes  to  them  in  vivid  and 
disrespectful  terms.  He  says  they  are  a  pack 
of —  you  know  the  rest. 

I  am  sailing  in  one  of  the  Orient  ships:  one  of 
the  big  ones,  twelve  thousand  tons  or  so. 

As  soon  as  I  get  on  board  the  lift-boy  assures 
me  that  there  are  only  eight  old  hands  on  board 
—  all  the  rest  have  struck. 

"  But  who  are  the  new  hands?  "  I  ask.  "  Casual 
amateurs?  " 

"Oh!  just  any  one  we  would  get/'  he  says. 

It  turns  out  that  five  hundred  members  of  the 
police  have  been  on  board  the  ship  for  a  week. 


4  Round   the  World  in 

Coaling  has  been  carried  out  with  the  utmost 
difficulty.  Most  of  the  new  stewards  have  never 
been  to  sea.  Nobody  knows  where  anything  is. 
The  steward  in  the  smoking-room  does  n't  know 
where  the  materials  for  liquid  refreshment  are 
concealed. 

"But  will  they  be  found  before  the  end  of  the 
voyage?"  I  hear  a  man  inquire  in  some  trepi- 
dation. 

The  steward  says  they  will.  There  is  a  sigh 
of  relief,  and  soon  we  are  steaming  down  the 
Thames.  I  shall  be  in  the  ship  till  we  reach  Aus- 
tralia. My  ticket  is  for  New  Zealand. 

There  is  a  sense  of  delicious  independence  and 
freedom  from  the  fretting  ties  of  everyday  life 
when  one  starts  on  a  long  journey  in  a  big  liner. 
And,  watching  the  lights  of  Brighton  flashing  in 
the  night,  I  murmur  to  myself  the  words  of  the 
hymn:  — 

"Peace,  perfect  peace,  with  loved  ones  far  away." 

Somebody  ought  one  day  to  write  the  epic  of 


THE  STEWARDS 


Any   Number   of  Days  5 

Brighton,  just  as  Mr.  Arnold  Bennett  has  written 
the  epic  of  the  Five  Towns.  Arnold  Bennett  has 
given  us  pictures  of  Brighton,  it  is  true ;  and  as  for 
Sussex,  no  county  has  such  a  crowd  of  enthusi- 
astic poets  to  sing  its  praise.  But  when  I  hear 
the  word  Sussex  spoken,  the  picture  it  evokes 
for  me  has  nothing  to  do  with  any  of  that  lyrical 
enthusiasm. 

I  see  a  third-class  railway  carriage  on  a  Mon- 
day morning  full  of  bluejackets.  They  are  travel- 
ling to  London  from  Portsmouth.  We  have  just 
left  Horsham.  One  of  them  is  looking  out  of  the 
window;  he  observes  a  man  sitting  on  a  stile. 
"Nice  easy  job  that  bloke's  got,"  the  sailor  ob- 
serves, "watching  the  tortoises  flash  by." 

All  this  is  suggested  by  the  sight  of  Brighton 
where,  at  this  very  moment,  while  I  am  setting 
out  to  wander  with  the  antipodes  (the  expression 
is  Shakespeare's),  I  know  that  two  friends  of 
mine  are  dining  in  that  most  comfortable  of  inns, 
the  Royal  York  Hotel.  I  wish  I  were  there.  .  .  . 


6  Round   the   World  in 

While  thus  meditating  on  absent  friends,  some- 
body asks  me  if  I  play  bridge.  I  say  Yes. 
"Why  did  you  say  Yes?"  I  say  to  myself, 
groaning  inwardly  as  I  sit  down  to  play.  "You 
know  you  can't  play  properly  and  that  you'll 
spoil  the  game." 

!•  Sure  enough  I  revoke  in  the  first  game.  How- 
ever, in  my  prophetic  soul  the  comforting  thought 
arises  that  I  shan't  be  asked  to  play  again. 

The  next  morning  by  breakfast  time  we  have 
almost  reached  Plymouth.  I  know  the  coast  we 
are  passing  between  Bolt  Head  and  Wembury 
Point,  having  been  brought  up  in  that  little 
corner  of  land.  I  played  on  those  beaches  as  a 
child,  picnicked  on  those  cliffs,  played  at  robbers 
and  smugglers  in  those  caves.  It  is  like  a  piece  of 
a  dream  to  see  these  familiar,  these  intimate  rocks 
and  cliffs,  after  so  many  years. 

The  sea  has  that  peculiar  glitter  as  of  a  million 
golden  scales,  and  the  sky  has  something  peculiar 
in  the  quality  of  its  azure,  something  luminous, 


Any   Number  of  Days  7 

hazy,  and  radiant  which  seems  to  me  to  belong 
to  the  seas  of  South  Devon,  and  to  the  seas  of 
South  Devon  alone. 

Is  this  really  so?  Does  it,  I  wonder,  strike  other 
people  in  the  same  way?  Or  is  the  impression  I 
receive  due  to  the  unfading  spell  and  the  old 
glamour  of  childhood. 

f  There  is  a  ruined  church  nestling  in  the  rocks 
right  down  by  the  waves;  there  are  the  paths, 
and  the  pools,  which  were  the  playground  of 
hundreds  of  games,  and  the  battlefields  of  mimic 
warfare,  and  the  temples  of  the  long  thoughts  of 
boyhood. 

There  are  the  spots  which  to  childhood's  eye 
seemed  one's  very  own,  a  sacred  and  permanent 
possession,  part  and  parcel  of  that  larger  entity 
of  home  which  was  then  the  centre  of  one's  uni- 
verse, and  seemed  to  be  indestructible  and  ever- 
lasting. 

•  And  now !  Thirty  years  after,  I  have  no  more  to 
do  with  it  than  any  of  my  fellow  passengers  in 


8  Round   the  World  in 

this  ship.  The  place  is  there,  the  place  is  the  same, 
but  I  am  divorced  from  it.  There  it  is,  in  sight  and 
almost  within  reach,  but  I  no  longer  belong  to  it. 
It  is  far  away,  a  part  of  the  past,  a  part  of  the  ir- 
revocable, a  fugitive  facet  in  a  kaleidoscope  of 
memories  and  dreams. 

If  the  world  of  romance  be  divided  into  prov- 
inces, each  having  its  capital,  Plymouth  is  cer- 
tainly the  capital  of  that  region  in  the  romantic 
world  of  England  which  concerns  the  sea.  And  the 
last  twenty  years,  which  have  made  such  fearful 
havoc  among  so  much  which  was  characteristically 
English,  have  spared  Plymouth.  Plymouth  still 
smiles  over  the  Sound  —  between  the  luxuriant 
wooded  hills  of  Mount  Edgecombe  and  the  forts 
of  Statton  Heights,  crowned  in  the  distance  by 
the  blue  rim  of  Dartmoor.  Little  cutters,  with 
their  spotless  sails,  are  racing  in  the  Sound ;  two 
torpedo  destroyers  are  dressed  because  it  is  Coro- 
nation Day;  a  German  liner  has  arrived  from 


Any   Number   of  Days  9 

New  York.  Everything  is  just  the  same  as  it 
used  to  be  thirty  years  ago. 

Just  before  sunset  a  real  Devonshire  shower 
comes  on,  veiling  the  hills  in  a  gray  mist,  but  the 
sun,  only  half  hidden,  silvers  the  waters.  Then 
the  rain  drifts  away,  and  the  sun  sets  in  a  watery 
glory  of  gold  and  silver,  and  as  the  twilight  deep- 
ens, threatening  and  cloudy,  all  the  lights  begin 
to  twinkle  on  the  Hoe. 

There  are  always  a  lot  of  lights  in  Plymouth, 
but  there  are  more  than  usual  to-night,  because 
the  city  is  illuminated.  We  steam  past  the  break- 
water. The  Eddystone  Light  appears  and  van- 
ishes intermittently  far  ahead,  and  behind  us 
Plymouth  is  twinkling  and  gleaming  and  flashing. 

"  Yarnder  lumes  the  Island,  yarnder  lie  the  ships, 

Wi*  sailor  lads  a-dancin'  heel-an'-toe, 
An'  the  shore-lights  flashin',  an'  the  night-tide  dashin', 

He  sees  it  arl  so  plainly,  as  he  saw  it  long  ago." 

These  lines  of  Newbolt's,  from  his  poem, 
''Drake's  Drum/'  ring  in  my  memory  and  seem 


io  Round   the  World 

now  and  to-night  intolerably  appropriate.  It 
begins  to  drizzle  once  more,  and  I  feel  the  well- 
known  smell  of  the  West  Country  rain  all  about 
me,  and  the  years  slip  by,  and  the  past  rises  from 
its  tomb,  sharp  and  vivid  as  the  present.  ...  I 
see  it  all  so  plainly  as  I  saw  it  long  ago. 

All  at  once  forward  in  the  steerage,  a  party  of 
Welsh  emigrants  start  singing  a  wailing  Celtic 
chorus,  piercingly  melancholy,  alien  and  strange, 
and  this  chases  away  the  dream,  and  reminds  me 
that  I  am  on  a  liner  bound  for  Australia,  and 
that  it's  raining,  and  I  determine  to  seek  the 
smoking-room. 


Bay  of  Biscay :  June  24 

SOMEBODY  ought  to  start  a  series  called 
"Books  by  Bores  for  People  who  Really  Want 
to  Know." 

These  books  would  contain  that  particular 
information  which  you  need  at  particular  times 
and  seasons,  but  which  you  cannot  bear  to  have 
imparted  to  you  at  any  other  time.  Information 
about  the  conditions  of  life  on  board  different 
liners,  for  instance.  If  somebody  begins  to  tell 
you  about  this  when  you  are  not  going  on  a  jour- 
ney and  he  has  just  returned,  you  withdraw  your 
attention  and  think  of  Tom  Thumb,  as  Dr.  John- 
son did  when  people  talked  of  the  Punic  Wars; 
or,  if  you  are  on  familiar  terms  with  the  inform- 
ant, you  tell  him  to  dry  up.  But  when  you  are 
yourself  starting  on  a  journey,  that  is  just  what 
you  want,  in  choosing  your  line  and  your  steamer, 
and  just  what  you  can't  get.  Nobody  knows.  It 
appears  to  be  a  dead  secret.  I  am  not  going 
to  give  a  particle  of  that  information  here, — 


12  Round   the  World  in 

I  know  the  result  too  well.  Any  digression  on 
any  general  subject,  say  the  claims  of  Christian 
Science,  or  the  merits  of  Harry  Lauder's  songs, 
would  be  tolerated,  but  not  that;  because  those 
things  are  topics,  and  this  other  thing  is  instruc- 
tion. Neither  children  nor  grown-up  people  can 
bear  to  be  instructed.  Children  have  to  submit 
to  it,  until  the  general  Children's  Strike  occurs. 
Grown-up  people  need  n't  and  don't,  and  if  peo- 
ple insist  on  instructing  them,  they  either  kill 
them,  as  the  Greeks  killed  Socrates,  who  was  a 
schoolmaster  abroad  if  ever  there  was  one ;  or  they 
put  them  in  Coventry  and  isolate  them  by  not 
listening,  as  the  House  of  Commons  did  to  Burke 
and  Macaulay;  or  they  damn  them  by  saying, 
"So-and-so  knows  a  lot,  but  he  is  a  bore."  It 
need  only  be  said  once.  The  man  is  done  for. 
He  has  quaffed  an  invisible  and  intangible  poison 
more  deadly  than  hemlock.  He  is  a  social  leper. 
His  approach  is  like  a  bell.  Wherever  he  goes,  he 
makes  a  desert.  He  can  call  it  peace,  if  he  likes. 


Any   Number   of  Days  13 

That  is  why  I  shall  say  no  word  about  the  ar- 
rangements, the  huge  qualities  and  advantages, 
of  the  steamers  of  the  Orient  line. 

But  to  go  back  to  the  Series  of  Books  by  Bores 
for  People  who  Really  Want  to  Know:  I  would 
suggest  the  following  subjects:  — 

A  Book  telling  you  (A)  whom  to  give  tips  to, 
and  how  much,  in  country-houses  and  hotels 
in  all  the  countries  of  the  world. 

And  (B)  how  much  to  public  men,  men  of 
business,  and  like  officials,  anywhere. 

Section  (B)  would  be  good  reading  if  written 
by  an  expert,  because  the  art  of  tipping  or  brib- 
ing a  Prime  Minister  is  no  doubt  a  delicate  one, 
and  though  one  hears  so  much  about  the  terrible 
bribery  and  corruption  in  many  countries,  one 
so  rarely  meets  any  one  who  has  actually  himself 
tipped  or  bribed  either  a  rich  Banker,  a  Magis- 
trate, a  General,  an  Archbishop,  or  a  Minister 
for  Foreign  Affairs. 


Gibraltar :  June  28 

MOST  people  have  been  there.  For  those  who 
haven't:  — 

"It  looks 
Exactly  as  it  does  in  books." 

We  stop  there  only  three  hours. 


Naples :  June  29 

ONE  often  hears  people  say  that  Naples  is 
"  disappointing. "  The  disappointment  depends 
on  what  you  expect,  on  your  standard  of  com- 
parison, and  on  the  nature  of  the  conditions 
under  which  you  see  Naples. 

There  was  once  upon  a  time  an  Englishwoman 
who  came  out  to  Rome  to  live  there.  She  was 
the  wife  of  a  scholar.  She  was  asked  by  one  of 
her  compatriots  whether  she  liked  Rome.  She 
said  it  was  a  great  come-down  after  what  she 
had  been  used  to. 

"And  where,"  asked  the  second  English- 
woman, "used  you  to  live  in  England?" 

"Surbiton,"  she  answered. 

Have  you  ever  seen  Surbiton?  It  is  a  small 
suburban  town  on  the  Southwestern  Railway, 
about  half  an  hour's  distance  by  rail  from  Lon- 
don. 

Well,  if  you  go  to  a  place  like  Naples  and  you 


16  Round   the  World  in 

expect  to  find  a  place  like  Sheerness,  you  will 
be  disappointed. 

Then  as  to  the  conditions.  These  depend  on 
the  weather;  and  I  know  by  experience  that  the 
weather  at  Naples  can  make  disappointment 
a  certainty.  The  first  time  I  went  there  it  rained. 
That  was  in  spring.  The  second  time  I  went 
there  it  snowed.  That  was  in  winter.  The  third 
time  I  went  there  I  chose  the  'month  of  May  so 
as  to  insure  good  weather.  There  was  a  thick 
fog  the  whole  time.  You  could  n't  even  see 
Vesuvius.  Nevertheless  I  persevered  and  went 
there  a  fourth  time,  and  was  rewarded.  This 
time  I  found  the  proper  weather  for  Naples.  It 
is  broiling  hot,  with  just  a  slight  sea-breeze. 

It  is  St.  Peter's  Day,  consequently  I  antici- 
pated that  the  shops  would  be  shut.  I  spoke  my 
fear  to  one  of  the  talkative  and  gesticulative 
guides  who  boarded  the  ship. 

He  said  No. 

"But  it's  Testa/"  I  said. 


NAPLES  —  THREE    IMPRESSIONS 


Any  Number   of  Days  17 

"St.  Peter,"  he  answered  with  a  sniff;  "St. 
Peter's  the  patron  Saint  of  Rome,  but  here, 
no!"  — and  he  made  a  gesture  of  indifferent 
contempt,  which  no  man  can  do  so  well  as  an 
Italian.  "We've  got  St.  Januarius,"  he  added. 

St.  Peter,  he  gave  one  to  understand,  was,  as 
far  as  Naples  is  concerned,  a  very  secondary 
person,  a  poor  affair.  And  this  is  odd,  because 
St.  Peter  was  a  fisherman,  and  Naples  is  a  city 
of  fishermen.  At  Naples  St.  Januarius  over- 
shadows every  one  and  everything  which  is  con- 
nected with  the  Life  Sacred:  besides  the  fact  of 
having  a  miracle  that  works  plumb,  and  to 
which  the  unbeliever  bears  witness. 

Some  of  the  shops  were  shut,  some  were 
open.  The  churches  were  decorated  with  red 
hangings  and  crowded  with  people  —  old  fisher- 
men, decrepit  women,  quantities  of  children  and 
young  women,  and  some  smart  young  men  in 
white  ducks  and  flannels. 

I  hold  that  in  many  ways  Naples  is  the  most 


i8  Round   the   World  in 

characteristic,  the  most  Italian,  of  all  Italy's 
cities.  It  is  the  most  exaggeratedly  Italian  of 
them  all.  L*  Italic  au  grand  complet.  It  is  there 
you  see  the  bluest  of  blue  skies,  the  yellowest 
of  yellow  houses,  where  you  hear  Italian  talk 
at  its  most  garrulous,  Italian  smells  at  their  most 
pungent,  and  Italian  song  at  its  most  nasal  sen- 
timental pitch,  those  squalling,  pathetic,  implor- 
ing, slightly  flat  love  songs,  the  best  of  all  love 
songs,  because  they  express  real  love  without 
any  nonsense,  plain  love,  unendurable,  excru- 
ciating love. 

" Excruciating"  is  the  word.  It  is  the  love  Ca- 
tullus sings  of  in  one  of  the  shortest  of  poems: — • 

"Odi  et  amo,  quave  id  faciam  fortasse  requiris 
Nescio  sed  fieri  sentio  et  excrucior." 

I  hate  and  I  love ;  and  if  you  want  to  know  how 
that  can  be,  I  can't  tell  you,  but  I  feel  it,  and  I 
am  excruciated  —  that  is  to  say,  I  am  in  agony. 
I  imagine  Catullus  living  at  Naples  and  sailing 
on  the  bay  in  his  yacht  (phaselus  ille)  and  going 


Any   Number  of  Days  19 

out  to  dinner  and  drinking  too  much  wine,  and 
being  witty  and  sometimes  insolent  to  important 
people  such  as  Julius  Caesar,  and  squalling  love 
songs,  bitter-sweet,  desperate,  passionate  songs, 
in  the  gardens  of  his  Lesbia,  whose  real  name 
was  Clodia. 

She  was  the  wife  of  a  politician  called,  I  think, 
Metellus  Celer,  and  the  professors  say  she  was 
very,  very  bad.  I  don't  trust  the  professors.  I 
don't  believe  they  know  what  the  Romans,  and 
especially  the  she-Romans,  were  like.  I  distrust 
their  knowledge.  But  I  trust  Catullus's  verse, 
and  from  that  it  is  evident  that  he  was  very 
much  in  love,  indeed,  and  very  unhappy. 
Wretched  Catullus,  as  he  calls  himself.  And  she, 
Lesbia,  did  n't  care  a  rap.  And  in  his  misery  he 
calls  her  hard  names,  which  were  probably  well 
deserved.  The  note  you  hear  in  his  poetry  is  the 
same  you  get  in  certain  Neapolitan  songs  you 
hear  in  the  street.  You  can  get  them  on  the 
gramophone,  sung  by  Anselmi. 


20  Round   the  World  in 

"At  Florence,"  according  to  an  Italian  say- 
ing, "you  think;  at  Rome,  you  pray;  at  Venice, 
you  love;  at  Naples,  you  look."  There  is  plenty 
to  look  at,  especially  in  the  evening,  when 
Vesuvius  turns  rosy  and  transparent  and  the 
sea  becomes  phosphorescent;  and  plenty  even 
in  the  daytime,  when  you  watch 

"The  blue  Mediterranean  where  he  lay 
Lulled  by  the  coil  of  his  crystalline  streams 

Beside  a  pumice  isle  in  Baise's  bay, 
And  saw  in  sleep  old  palaces  and  towers 

Quivering  within  the  wave's  intenser  day, 
All  overgrown  with  azure  moss  and  flowers." 

The  poets  do  hit  it  sometimes.  And  that  is 
an  exact  description  of  Capri.  It  quivers  in  the 
wave's  intenser  day.  As  you  drive  along  to 
Posilippo,  the  hills  of  Sorrento  seem  like  phan- 
toms; the  vegetation  on  the  hill  is  gorgeously 
luxuriant  and  green ;  you  pass  donkey  carts  laden 
with  bright-coloured  fruits;  the  driver  carries 
a  huge  yellow  or  green  parasol;  every  now  and 
then  somebody  shouts;  trams  whistle  by.  It  is 


Any   Number   of  Days  21 

hot,  swelteringly  hot,  but  freshness  comes  from 
the  sea.  Vesuvius  is  dormant,  but  crowned  by 
a  little  cloud  which  pretends  to  be  an  eruption 
and  is  n't. 

You  are  glutted  with  sunshine  and  beauty 
and  heat  and  colour.  This  is  Italy,  the  quintes- 
sence of  Italy,  a  panorama  of  azure,  and  sun, 
and  dust.  To-day,  in  any  case,  there  is  nothing 
disappointing  about  it  —  and  I  wish  I  were  going 
to  bathe  in  the  reaches  near  Posilippo,  and  to 
sail  in  a  boat  at  night  and  listen  to  the  squealing, 
love-sick  Neapolitan  songsters. 

When  I  get  back  to  the  ship,  the  passengers  are 
all  looking  on  at  the  boys  diving  for  pennies,  and 
carefully  distinguishing  between  copper  and  sil- 
ver, under  the  sea;  till  at  last  we  leave  behind 
the  noise,  the  chatter,  and  the  importunate 
vendors  who  want  to  sell  you  opera-glasses  for 
almost  nothing,  and  steam  past  Vesuvius,  Sor- 
rento, and  Capri,  away  into  the  blue  Mediter- 
ranean. Addio,  Napoli. 


Port  Said:  July  3 

WE  call  for  the  mails  at  Taranto  and  then 
nothing  happens  till  we  get  to  Port  Said  —  ex- 
cept that  the  stewards  who  had  never  been  to 
sea  before  have  recovered  from  seasickness,  and 
the  passengers  are  all  well  enough  now  to  organ- 
ise games  and  competitions  in  order  to  break  the 
monotony,  or  to  mar  the  peace  (whichever  you 
like),  of  the  voyage. 

At  Port  Said  we  coal.  Black  men  do  it,  sing- 
ing the  whole  time.  When  one  has  seen  the  black 
men  coal  at  Port  Said  one  realizes  how  the 
Egyptian  pyramids  were  built.  I  don't  mean  how 
the  engineering  was  done,  but  the  kind  of  way 
in  which  the  people  who  had  to  make  bricks 
without  straw  set  about  it;  for  in  the  East  no- 
thing changes. 

Conjurers  and  fortune-tellers  come  on  board. 
I  have  my  fortune  told.  I  am  amazed  by  the 
accurate  description  of  my  character  and  the 


Round   the   World  23 

probability  of  the  foretold  fortune,  until  a  friend 
of  mine  has  his  fortune  told,  and  on  comparing 
notes,  we  find  the  man  told  us  word  for  word  the 
same  thing  about  our  characteristics  and  fortune, 
past,  present,  and  future.  On  reflection,  I  see 
that  the  way  to  tell  people's  character  is  to  have 
one  list  of  characteristics  and  to  use  it  for  every 
one  without  the  slightest  variation.  It  is  bound 
to  succeed.  For  instance,  supposing  Falstaff 
and  Hamlet  had  their  fortunes  told  by  this 
Nubian,  I  imagine  he  would  have  told  Ham- 
let's character  as  follows  (I  assume  Hamlet  and 
Falstaff  to  be  on  board  incognito) :  — 

You  are  not  so  fortunate  as  you  seem.  You 
have  a  great  deal  of  sense,  but  more  sense  than 
knowledge.  You  can  give  admirable  advice  to 
other  people.  Your  judgment  is  excellent  as 
regards  others,  but  bad  as  regards  yourself. 
You  never  take  your  own  good  advice.  You  are 
fond  of  your  friends.  You  prefer  talk  to  action. 
You  suffer  from  indecision.  You  are  fond  of  the 


24  Round   the   World  in 

stage.  You  are  susceptible  to  female  beauty. 
You  are  witty,  amiable,  and  well  educated,  but 
you  have  a  weakness  for  coarse  jokes.  You  are 
superstitious  and  believe  in  ghosts.  You  can 
make  people  laugh ;  you  often  pretend  to  be  more 
foolish  than  you  are.  At  other  times  you  will 
surprise  people  by  your  power  of  apt  repartee. 
Your  bane  will  be  an  inclination  to  fat  which  will 
hamper  you  in  fighting.  You  are  unsuccessful 
as  a  soldier,  but  unrivalled  as  a  companion  and 
philosopher.  You  will  mix  in  high  society,  and 
have  friends  at  Court.  You  will  come  off  badly 
in  personal  encounter,  and  your  final  enemy  will 
be  a  king." 

Now,  imagine  him  saying  exactly  the  same 
thing  to  Falstaff.  Does  n't  it  fit  him  just  as  well? 
Can't  you  imagine  Falstaff  saying,  "He  has  hit 
me  off  to  a  T,"  and  Hamlet  murmuring,  "My 
prophetic  soul"?  In  fact,  I  believe  the  profes- 
sion of  a  fortune-teller,  after  that  of  a  hair-special- 
ist, to  be  the  finest  profession  in  the  world,  and 


Any   Number   of  Days  25 

the  easiest.  In  the  first  place  it  is  almost  impos- 
sible to  prevent  the  patient  from  telling  you  the 
whole  of  his  past  and  present  of  his  own  accord ; 
and  even  if  he  does  n't  do  this,  a  little  deft  cross- 
examination  involved  in  a  mass  of  vague  gen- 
eralization will  extract  a  good  deal. 

This  particular  Nubian  in  the  course  of  the 
process  asked  me  my  age,  my  profession,  whether 
I  was  married,  what  my  financial  prospects  were, 
and  whether  I  had  any  children.  However,  I 
refused  to  answer  questions;  but  I  very  nearly 
did  once  or  twice,  so  insinuatingly  were  the  ques- 
tions put.  I  further  tested  the  process  by  having 
my  fortune  and  character  told  by  a  se.cond  seer, 
and  he  said  exactly  the  same  things  as  the  first 
had  said,  and  I  afterwards  found  out  that  he 
also  had  said  exactly  the  same  thing  to  some  one 
else. 


The  Red  Sea :  in  July 

THE  first  day  you  say  it  is  pleasant.  The  sec- 
ond day  you  say  the  stories  about  the  heat  you 
have  heard  are  gross  exaggerations.  The  third 
day  you  feel  the  heat;  and  the  fourth  you  realize 
that  you  are  morning,  noon,  and  night  in  a  Turk- 
ish bath  that  has  n't  got  a  cooling-room.  And 
yet  the  energetic  played  cricket  and  quoits. , 

One  morning  (quite  early  in  the  morning)  a 
tragedy  happened.  One  of  the  stokers,  a  Maltee, 
went  mad,  owing  to  the  heat,  and  jumped  over- 
board. The  steamer  stopped,  but  nothing  could 
be  done.  The  sea  is  full  of  sharks. 

The  air  is  full  of  little  particles  of  dust  which 
makes  your  hair  gritty.  The  best  way  to  spend 
one's  time  is,  I  think,  to  remain  obstinately 
motionless  in  a  chair,  dressed  in  the  lightest  of 
clothes,  and  to  read  novels,  stories  which  engage 
without  unduly  straining  the  attention. 

How  grateful   one   is  on   such  occasions  to 


Round   the   World  27 

the  authors  who  have  written  books  of  that 
kind! 

Somebody  once  said  that  there  were  books 
which  it  is  a  positive  pleasure  to  read.  To  my 
mind  the  most  precious  of  all  books  are  those 
which  seem  to  do  the  work  for  you.  You  don't 
have  to  bother;  you  are  not  aware  that  you  are 
reading.  Nobody  could  say  this  of  the  works 
of  George  Meredith  or  of  Henry  James.  You 
may  be  interested,  delighted,  and  moved,  but 
you  know  you  are  reading. 

Anthony  Trollope  and  William  de  Morgan 
do  the  work  for  me,  personally;  so  do  Victor 
Hugo,  George  Sand,  Count  Tolstoy,  and  Rud- 
yard  Kipling. 

Then  there  are  books  which  one  can't  stop 
reading.  To  this  class  belong,  in  my  case,  the 
works  of  Dumas:  " Monte  Cristo,"  "La  Reine 
Margot,"  and  the  many  volumes  which  tell  of 
the  Musketeers. 

" Monte  Cristo"  is  the  only  book  which  for 


28  Round   the  World  in 

me  has  ever  annihilated  time,  space,  and  place, 
and  everything  else. 

I  read  it  at  school  at  Eton,  on  a  whole  school- 
day.  At  three  you  had  to  go  into  school,  which 
lasted  till  four.  I  began  reading,  or  rather  flew 
back  to  my  book,  as  soon  as  luncheon  was  over, 
about  half  past  two.  I  had  just  got  to  the  part 
where  Dantes  is  escaping  from  the  Chateau 
d'If.  I  sat  reading  in  a  small  room  in  my  tutor's 
house.  A  quarter  to  three  struck;  three  struck; 
Dumas  silenced  those  bells,  whose  sound  your 
whole  unconscious  self,  as  a  rule,  automatically 
obeyed.  You  could  n't  forget  that  sound  if  you 
wanted  to,  any  more  than  a  soldier  forgets  the 
bugle-calls  that  mark  the  routine  of  the  day,  or 
the  sailor  forgets  the  boatswain's  whistle.  The 
sound  is  in  his  flesh  and  bones  as  well  as  in  his 
ears.  Nature  responds  to  it  automatically,  un- 
consciously. 

But  the  sound  of  the  clock  striking  three  es- 
caped me;  and  the  clanging  echoes  of  the  school 


Any   Number  of  Days  29 

clock  chiming  the  quarters  struck  in  vain  for 
me  through  my  open  window  on  that  June  after- 
noon: and  a  quarter  past  three,  half  past  three, 
and  quarter  to  four.  I  may  have  heard,  but  I 
heeded  not;  my  mind  was  far  away.  Now  to 
shirk  school  altogether  was  an  unheard-of  thing. 
You  could  do  it  in  the  early  morning  and  say 
you  were  ill,  and  "stay  out"  under  the  protec- 
tion of  the  matron,  who  always  certified  that 
you  were  ill.  (Who  knows?  it  might  be  measles!) 
But  if  you  shirked  afternoon  school,  it  meant 
probably  writing  out  four  books  of  "Paradise 
Lost."  A  little  time  after  the  quarter,  the  boys' 
maid  came  into  my  room  and  asked  me  what- 
ever I  was  doing.  I  was  brought  back  from  the 
Chateau  d'lf,  and  my  heart  stopped  still.  I  raced 
downstairs,  across  the  street  to  the  schoolyard, 
up  the  wooden  stairs  into  the  old  Upper  School, 
where  beneath  the  busts  of  famous  old  Eton- 
ians, our  little  lessons  dribbled  on.  I  found 
school  just  over,  and  oh!  miracle  of  miracles! 


30  Round   the  World  in 

my  absence  had  n't  been  noticed!  In  every 
division  there  was  a  boy  called  the  Prcepostor 
whose  duty  it  was  to  see  that  every  boy  was 
present  at  chapel  and  in  school  (that  is  to  say, 
in  the  various  classrooms).  The  office  was  held 
for  a  week  by  every  boy  in  the  division,  in  turn. 
If  you  were  absent,  he  had  to  find  out  whether  it 
was  due  to  certified  illness  or  whether  you  had 
any  other  reasonable  excuse.  If  not,  your  name 
went  in  to  the  Head  Master.  He  had  n't  noticed 
my  absence,  nor  had  the  master,  and  I  walked 
away  with  the  other  boys  as  though  I  had  been 
there  all  the  time  instead  of  at  the  Chateau  d'If. 
I  sometimes  think  that  perhaps  the  spirit  of 
Dumas  impersonated  me  during  that  hour  in 
Upper  School,  so  that  my  rapture  in  reading 
of  Dantes's  escape  for  the  first  time  might  be 
complete,  perfect,  and  uninterrupted.  If  Dumas 
could  make  one  forget  the  chimes  of  the  school 
clock  at  Eton,  he  could  make  one  forget  any- 
thing. 


Any   Number   of  Days  31 

Another  book  which  has  (in  addition  to  many 
other  glorious  qualities  such  as  poetry,  pathos, 
and  passion)  the  same  riveting  power  is,  to  my 
mind  (if  you  skip  the  historical  dissertations), 
Victor  Hugo's  "Les  Miserables."  Mr.  Basil 
Thomson  says  it  is  the  favourite  book  of  the  con- 
victs in  Dartmoor  Prison,  and  that  they  call  it 
"  Less  Miserable/'  It  is  a  favourite  book  among 
the  Russian  peasants  also  —  among  those  who 
read  and  write.  So  is,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  "  Monte 
Cristo."  Most  literary  critics  say  the  latter  part 
of  "  Monte  Cristo  "  is  a  pity.  Not  so  the  Russian 
peasant,  and  not  I.  The  proof  is  in  the  reading. 
Whoever  heard  of  anybody  not  finishing  "  Monte 
Cristo,"  and  stopping  halfway,  bored  ? 

In  reading  what  Mr.  Basil  Thomson  says  of 
the  books  liked  and  the  books  disliked  by  the 
prisoners  in  Dartmoor  Prison,  I  was  startlingly 
reminded  of  what  I  had  heard  and  seen  myself 
of  the  literary  taste  of  the  Russian  peasants. 

They  both  dislike  books  which  are  "full  of 


32  Round   the  World  in 

lies"  (including  many  excellent  modern  stories). 
"  Monte  Cristo"  has  the  seal  of  romantic  truth. 
I  met  a  man  in  a  steamer  later  on  in  my  journey 
who  said  that  "Monte  Cristo"  was  the  best 
book  in  print.  I  agree. 

In  the  Red  Sea  it  was  almost  too  hot  to  read, 
and  I  murmured  to  myself  those  lines  from 
H.  Belloc's  epic,  "The  Modern  Traveller":  — ^ 

"O  Africa,  mysterious  land, 
Surrounded  by  a  lot  of  sand  — 
Far  land  of  Ophir,  mined  of  old 
By  lordly  Solomon  for  gold, 
Who  sailing  southward  to  Perim, 
Took  all  the  gold  away  with  him, 
And  left  a  lot  of  holes: 
Vacuities  which  bring  despair 
To  those  confiding  souls, 
Who  find  that  they  have  bought  a  share 
In  desolate  horizons  where 
The  Desert,  terrible  and  bare, 
Interminably  rolls." 

Perim  we  passed  in  the  night,  and  then  there 
suddenly  came  a  moment  when  it  got  cooler. 


Any   Number   of  Days  33 

We  had  turned  a  corner  and  the  breeze  began 
to  blow.  A  hot  breeze,  but  a  breeze.  And  it's 
something  even  to  get  a  hot  breeze  after  four  days 
and  four  nights  in  a  Turkish  bath. 


The  Gulf  of  A  den :  July 

EVERYBODY  up  to  now  has  been  vaguely  dis- 
cussing what  kind  of  monsoon  it  would  be.  The 
most  dismal  prophecies  were  made.  We  were  told 
it  would  be  very  rough,  very  hot,  and  very  wet. 
As  it  turns  out,  it  is  not  rough,  not  wet,  but 
still  hot:  steamy  and  damp,  that  is  to  say. 

I  now  feel  as  if  I  had  been  all  my  life  on  board. 
The  passengers,  the  officers,  and  crew  seem  to 
be  the  only  people  in  my  universe;  the  rest  are 
shadows  and  dreams.  There  are  not  many  pas- 
sengers on  board.  People  fight  shy  of  the  Red 
Sea  and  the  monsoon  in  July.  I  think  they  are 
wrong.  There  are  just  enough  people  for  com- 
pany and  not  too  many  for  comfort.  There  is 
a  pleasant  variety  of  passengers;  a  few  Austral- 
ians, two  Germans,  a  Frenchman  and  his  wife, 
an  Irishman,  —  once  a  mining  expert  and  now 
a  professional  painter  who  paints  bold  and  cap- 
able landscapes  in  oil,  full  of  colour  and  light,  — 


Round   the  World  35 

a  Scotch  family,  a  High  Commissioner  (what- 
ever that  may  be),  an  American  lady  singer,  a 
missionary,  and  two  young  North-Country  Eng- 
lishmen. 

If  one  travels  for  over  a  month  on  a  liner, 
one's  fellow  passengers  sometimes  may  become 
something  more  than  what  Bourget  calls  profits 
perdus:  meaning  the  chance  acquaintanceships 
of  the  table  d'hote  and  the  railway  train.  In  a 
steamer  one  can,  if  one  chooses,  get  to  know 
people  really  well. 

Every  evening  a  small  crowd  play  whisky 
poker  for  cocktails;  after  dinner  there  is  a  good 
deal  of  bridge ;  sometimes  some  music.  But  from 
ship's  music,  as  a  rule,  one  can  "  withdraw  one's 
attention"  without  difficulty. 

I  am  told  a  good  deal  about  Australia  and 
the  Australians  by  people  who  have  been  back- 
wards and  forwards.  They  agree  to  its  being  a 
splendid  country,  full  of  openings  for  the  emi- 
grant. "In  Australia,"  some  one  tells  me,  "peo- 


36  Round   the  World  in 

pie  don't  ask  you  for  references.  If  you  ask  for 
a  job  they  give  it  you,  and  as  long  as  you  show 
you  can  do  it,  they  let  you  do  it,  and  as  soon  as 
you  show  signs  of  not  being  able  to  do  it,  they 
fire  you  out." 

That  is,  indeed,  a  different  system  from  what 
obtains  in  the  mother  country,  where  references 
are  regarded  with  awe,  and  where  a  thousand 
small  side  issues  often  contribute  not  only  to  a 
square  peg  remaining  in  a  round  hole,  but  to  an 
utterly  hopeless  peg  remaining  in  any  kind  of 
hole. 

One  also  hears  that  the  Australians  (a)  resent 
criticism  on  anything  Australian;  (b)  are  very 
critical  of  what  they  see  in  other  countries. 

What  irritates  the  Australians,  no  doubt,  and 
what  justly  irritates  them,  is  when  globe-trotters 
rush  round  the  country  in  a  few  days  and  then 
write  a  book  of  critical  impressions.  In  England 
(and  in  America,  I  should  think)  the  people 
have  got  over  being  irritated  by  that  particular 


FROM   SHIP'S   MUSIC,  AS    A    RULE,  ONE   CAN    WITHDRAW   ONE'S 
ATTENTION    WITHOUT    DIFFICULTY 


Any   Number  of  Days  37 

form  of  literature.  They  don't  care.  If  a  visitor, 
after  spending  a  fortnight  in  England,  writes  a 
book  called  "The  Rotten  English,"  or  "Those 
Damned  English,"  or  the  "God-forsaken  Coun- 
try," we  don't  much  care.  And  as  for  criticism, 
if  it  be  well  founded  and  well  expressed,  it  will 
be  certain  to  obtain  a  wide  popularity  in  Eng- 
land. Witness  Mr.  Collier's  "England  and  the 
English."  Personally  there  is  nothing  I  enjoy 
reading  more  than  the  critical  impressions  of 
my  own  country  written  by  an  intelligent  for- 
eigner. It  opens  the  window  on  all  sorts  of  shut- 
up  points  of  view,  and  it  calls  one's  attention 
to  what  one  had  never  noticed  because  it  was 
too  obvious;  because  we  ourselves  are  in  it. 

But  the  Australians  appear  to  be  sensitive  to 
the  criticism  of  the  foreigner,  even  when  it  is 
just  and  well  founded.  My  very  slender  experi- 
ence has  convinced  me  that  they  are  often  un- 
duly critical  with  regard  to  the  objects  of  interest 
in  other  countries.  One  day,  on  board,  one  of 


38  Round   the  World  in 

the  Australians  expressed  disappointment  and 
censure  with  regard  to  London  architecture. 
I  thought  at  first  he  meant  the  new  public  offices; 
but  not  at  all;  he  meant  Westminster  Abbey, 
which  compared  unfavourably  with  the  cathedral 
in  Adelaide. 

I  was  inclined  to  think  this  critical  point  of 
view  which  was  attributed  to  the  colonials  was 
perhaps  imaginary,  or  in  any  case  exaggerated. 
It  certainly  is  exaggerated;  it  is  n't  imaginary. 

Here,  for  instance,  are  some  extracts  taken 
from  a  book  written  by  A.  W.  Rutherford,  of 
New  Zealand,  on  Europe.  I  quote  them  from  a 
review  which  appeared  in  an  Australian  review, 
''The  Bookfellow."  Mr.  Rutherford,  says  the 
reviewer,  was  disappointed  with  Paris;  "the 
streets  are  not  equal  to  those  of  any  of  our  cities ; 
the  respectable  restaurants  are  mean,  shabby 
affairs;  the  swell  restaurants  are  the  haunts  of 
gilded  vice  and  supported  by  vice;  the  Seine, 
like  the  Thames  within  its  city  boundary,  is 


Any   Number  of  Days  39 

just  a  dirty  ditch  —  neither  of  them  to  be  com- 
pared with  the  Waikato.  Most  Parisians  look 
dowdy.  Our  Maoris  could  teach  the  French  a 
lesson  in  politeness.  Meat  is  not  safe  in  France. 
.  .  .  Much  of  the  wine  is  vile;  no  colonial  could 
possibly  drink  it;  the  cheap  wines  of  France  are 
deadly  rubbish." 

Of  the  tombs  in  Westminster  Abbey  he  says 
they  are  dirty,  untidy,  inartistic;  "some  of  them 
look  like  great  cooking  ranges." 

He  is  disappointed  in  Venice,  but  he  gives  a 
clear  reason  for  his  disappointment  in  the  gon- 
dola. "I  had  imagined  the  latter  a  frivolous, 
giddy  thing,  gaily  painted,  and  the  gondoliers 
clothed  as  in  the  play  of  that  name.  The  gon- 
doliers are  just  plain  sailor  men,  in  their  work-a- 
day  clothes." 

That  explains  everything.  Everything,  as  I 
said  about  Naples,  depends  on  what  you  expect, 
on  your  standard.  If  you  expect  a  gondola  to  be 
gilded  and  giddy  and  it  turns  out  to  be  black, 


4-O  Round   the  World  in 

you  are  disappointed.  If  you  expect  the  Seine 
and  the  Thames  to  be  vast  rivers,  outside  their 
cities  and  not  in  them,  you  are  disappointed. 
What  such  authors  never  seem  to  bother  about 
is  whether  their  standard  is  likely  to  be  indorsed 
by  the  rest  of  the  human  race  or  not.  Their 
standard  may  be  an  excellent  one  for  some  things. 
The  things  which  everybody  else  in  the  world 
would  acknowledge  to  be  good.  For  instance, 
in  this  case,  the  manners  of  the  Maoris.  The 
Maoris  are  the  most  courteous  and  chivalrous 
race  in  the  world.  But  if  they  can  teach  manners 
to  the  French,  there  are  many  people  in  the 
colonies  who  would  benefit  by  a  lesson  from  them 
also.  Another  thing  which  the  author  of  this 
book  does  not  seem  to  realize  is  that  there  are 
many  people  who  prefer  a  gondolier  should  look 
like  a  sailor,  which  he  is,  than  like  a  singer  in 
operetta.  They  prefer  him  to  be  dressed  in  his 
ordinary  work-a-day  clothes.  They  think  it  not 
only  more  appropriate  to  his  task,  but  more  pic- 


Any   Number   of  Days  41 

turesque.  They  think  a  man  who  is  dressed  in 
the  clothes  which  befit  his  profession  will  look 
more  dignified  than  a  man  who  is  dressed  up  as 
for  a  pageant. 

The  reviewer  ends  by  saying,  "Mr.  Ruther- 
ford is  a  representative  New  Zealander,  and  in 
many  ways  a  typical  New  Zealander.  His  inter- 
esting book  is  worth  reading.  It  is  compounded 
of  keen  observation,  shrewd  judgment,  parish 
prejudice,  and  pure  ignorance  ...  in  its  narrow- 
ness and  in  its  depth,  its  arrogance  and  its  en- 
lightenment, it  comments  upon  New  Zealand 
as  effectively  as  upon  Europe;  it  shows  us  why 
Dominion  standards  are  condemned  in  Britain, 
sometimes  justly,  and  it  may  suggest  to  British 
readers  how  the  Dominions  feel  in  regard  to  the 
comments  of  hasty  British  tourists  with  fre- 
quently less  ability  than  Mr.  Rutherford  dis- 
plays." 

Yes,  it  does  suggest  that.  It  also  suggests  to 
one  to  hope  that  free  trade  and  liberty  may  be 


42  Round   the  World   in 

maintained  in  the  matter.  Let  the  colonial  say 
exactly  what  he  thinks  about  Europe,  but  let 
the  European  say  exactly  what  he  thinks  about 
the  colonies,  and  then  neither  side  can  have  a 
grievance.  But  when  the  colonial  complains  of 
the  hasty  and  narrow  judgment  of  the  European, 
let  him  have  a  thought  for  the  possible  beam 
in  his  own  eye. 

Another  time,  on  board,  another  Australian 
complained  that  the  works  of  G.  K.  Chester- 
ton were  bosh.  ''Thank  God,"  he  added,  "he's 
not  an  Australian. " 

But  fancy  if  G.  K.  Chesterton  had  been  an 
Australian.  One  wonders  what  would  have  been 
the  effect  on  his  figure,  his  style,  and  his  philo- 
sophy. Instead  of  his  romantic,  adventurous 
optimism,  would  his  genius  have  been  sultry, 
pessimistic,  and  rebellious? 

I  think  he  would  have  written  gigantic  epics 
on  the  Blue  Mountains,  the  Bush,  and  gum- 
trees;  wild  romances  about  bush-rangers,  and 


IF   G.  K.  CHESTERTON    HAD    BEEN    AN    AUSTRALIAN 


Any   Number   of  Days  43 

beach-combers,  and  swinging  songs  about  Bot- 
any Bay. 

I  can  imagine  G.  K.  Chesterton,  looking  lean 
and  spare,  riding  a  horse  bareback.  One  of  his 
qualities  would  have  certainly  developed  in  the 
same  way,  had  he  been  born  and  bred  over  the 
sea,  and  that  is  his  geniality,  his  large,  hospit- 
able nature,  his  belief  in  goodness;  for  hospi- 
tality and  friendliness  grow  if  anything  quicker 
on  Australian  and  colonial  soil  than  they  do  in 
England. 

Here  is  a  fragment  of  verse  supposed  to  be 
written  by  G.  K.  Chesterton,  had  he  been  born 
and  bred  in  the  country  which  Adam  Lindsay 
Gordon  sang:  — 

"The  Melbourne  Cup;'  or  "  Hippodromania" 

The  crowd  came  out  of  the  Eastern  lands 

To  see  the  Melbourne  Cup, 
Like  Titans  under  tiger  skies 
They  were  as  simple  as  surprise 

And  pleased  as  a  bulldog  pup. 


44  Round   the  World  in 

Beyond  the  twisted  gum-trees 

They  suddenly  ceased  to  swarm; 

Like  statues  the  wild  crowd  stood  still, 

Like  soldiers  little  children  drill, 

And  silence  came  upon  the  hill 

More  loud  than  a  thunderstorm. 

And  the  bell  rang  a  little, 

And  the  riders  were  up  at  the  post, 
Full  of  strange  fire  the  racers  strip 
And  ramp  and  rock  and  boil  and  skip 
Each  like  an  angel  in  a  ship 

That  charges  the  tall  white  coast. 

The  emerald  course  was  a  course  indeed, 

Between  that  crowd  of  men. 
And  every  steed  became  a  steed. 

"Say  when,  old  boy,  say  when!" 

The  flag  is  lowered,  they're  off!  They  come! 

Like  clouds  on  a  roaring  sky. 
Jim  WhifHer  swirls  his  whip  away 

And  the  tall  grey  horse  goes  by. 

His  face  is  like  a  newspaper 

That  many  men  take  in; 
The  colours  of  his  sleeve  are  mixed 

Like  cocktails  made  with  gin. 


Any  Number   of  Days  45 

Now  Strop  falls  back,  they  're  neck  and  neck, 

Now  Davis,  Whiffler,  ride; 
Jim  Whiffler  with  his  brainless  face 

Is  spun  and  swirled  aside. 

Jim  Whiffler 's  lost!  but  as  he  fails 

He  screams  into  the  din, 
The  mare  has  still  more  heart  to  lose 

Than  you  have  heart  to  win. 

And  Whiffler  sits  high  in  the  saddle, 

A  broken-hearted  jockey; 
And  our  Jim  Whiffler,  robbed  of  fame, 
Singed  by  the  bookmakers  with  blame, 
Cries  out,  " I'll  change  my  trade  and  name 

And  take  to  playing  hockey." 


The  Indian  Ocean:  during  the  Monsoon 

IT  's  not  at  all  like  the  Indian  Ocean  of  which 
Kipling  sings,  "so  soft,  so  something,  so  bloom- 
ing blue."  It  is  grey;  there's  a  swell,  and  it's 
muggy.  But  at  night  you  can  see  the  Southern 
Cross,  and  that's  an  excitement. 

How  did  Dante  know  there  was  such  a  thing 
as  the  Southern  Cross?  He  certainly  did  know 
it,  because  when  he  emerged  from  hell,  some- 
where near  the  South  Pole,  he  says  he  looked  at 
the  polar  sky  and  saw  four  stars  which  had  never 
been  seen  before  save  by  the  first  people  —  who- 
ever they  were  (the  inhabitants  of  Paradise?)  — 

"All'  altro  polo,  e  vidi  quattro  stelle 
Non  viste  mai  fuor  che  alia  prima  gente." 

I  dare  say,  and  I  believe  some  commentators 
do  say,  that  his  meaning  was  allegorical,  and 
that  by  the  four  stars  he  meant  Woman's  Suff- 
rage, or  the  battle  of  Waterloo.  I  take  leave^to 
differ.  I'm  sure  he  meant  the  Southern  Cross. 


Round   the   World  47 

Perhaps  it  is  in  Herodotus,  whose  geography, 
long  suspected  of  being  fantastic,  is  proved  to 
be  more  and  more  accurate.  For  instance,  Hero- 
dotus said  the  source  of  the  Nile  was  in  the  Silver 
Mountain.  This  was  pooh-poohed  for  centuries, 
until  the  discovery  of  Mount  Ruwenzori  proved 
that  Herodotus  was  perfectly  right. 

Dante  was  a  great  traveller,  and  the  greatest 
pen  impressionist  who  ever  wrote.  He  describes 
a  landscape  in  a  line  so  that  it  stays  with  you 
forever.  He  uses  the  smallest  possible  number  of 
words,  hardly  any  adjectives,  and  the  picture 
leaps  up  before  you,  immortal  and  unforgettable. 

Who  can  do  this  among  the  moderns?  Keats 
could  sometimes.  Tennyson  gives  you  English 
landscape.  If  you  read  "In  Memoriam"  you 
have  lived  a  year  in  the  English  country  and 
seen  the  march  of  the  English  seasons.  Crabbe 
can  do  it.  Who  reads  Crabbe?  Nobody.  And 
yet  he  is  a  wonderful  poet,  as  realistic  as  Tol- 
stoy and  Arnold  Bennett,  as  poignant  as  Gorky. 


48  Round  the   World  in 

Byron  called  him  the  best  painter  of  nature. 
(And  Byron  was  a  good  judge.)  He  can  give  you 
a  landscape  in  a  line.  For  instance:  — 

"And  on  the  ocean  slept  th'  unanchored  fleet." 

He  writes  about  the  poor  as  they  are,  without 
sentimentality,  and  without  exaggeration;  and 
as  a  painter  of  English  landscape  he  still  re- 
mains the  best. 

What  has  the  poet  Crabbe  got  to  do  with  the 
Indian  Ocean?  Nothing.  But  it  can  do  nobody 
any  harm  to  be  reminded  of  the  poet  Crabbe, 
although  he  was  born  in  1754  and  died  in  1832. 
He  may  not  be  read  by  the  modern  generation, 
but  he  is  not  forgotten.  A  Frenchman  wrote  a 
long  and  excellent  book  about  him  not  long  ago. 
He  is  safe  in  the  Temple  of  Fame,  which  once 
you  have  entered  you  cannot  leave.  And  this 
temple  is  like  a  wheel.  It  goes  round  and  round, 
and  sometimes  some  of  its  inmates  are  in  the 
glare  of  the  sun,  and_sometimes  they  are  in  the 


Any   Number  ofDays  49 

shade,  but  they  are  there;  and  they  never  fall 
out.  This  is  comforting.  It  also  teaches  us  not 
to  laugh  at  the  taste  of  our  fathers,  because  that 
taste  which  we  despise  may  be  the  rage  once  more 
in  the  days  of  our  grandchildren. 

How  we  used  to  despise  everything  connected 
with  the  Early  Victorian  period.  Now  people 
have  their  rooms  done  up  in  Early  Victorian 
style,  and  Early  Victorian  furniture  is  collected; 
rep  sofas  are  precious,  green  tablecloths  and 
antimacassars.  They  have  passed  the  period 
of  being  like  an  out-of-date  fashion  plate;  they 
have  reached  the  hallowed  moment  of  being 
picturesque  and  Old  World.  It  is  Late  Victorian 
art  that  is  now  despised  —  William  Morris  and 
Burne- Jones.  But  they  are  safe  in  the  temple, 
too,  and  a  day  will  come  when  people  will  ad- 
mire Burne-Jones's  pictures  and  collect  Morris 
designs  as  a  great  curiosity,  and  say,  "This  is 
a  very  fine  specimen  of  1880  chintz/* 

During  this  monsoon  period  I  read  more  than 


50  Round  the  World 

ever.  I  once  asked  a  famous  politician  what  he 
did  on  a  sea  voyage.  He  said,  "The  first  day 
I  am  civil  to  my  fellow  passengers,  and  after 
that  I  read  Scott's  novels."  I  adopted  this  plan. 


Ceylon:  July 

A  LINE  of  palm  trees  over  a  tumultuous  fringe 
of  silver  foam,  which  leaps  up  on  a  dull  opal- 
green  sea,  is  your  first  impression  as  you  get  near 
the  island.  When  you  come  into  harbour,  a  quan- 
tity of  narrow  black  boats  swarm  round  the 
steamer.  Then  the  tug  comes  alongside,  and 
after  waiting  in  it  till  it  is  no  longer  worth  while 
to  go  on  shore  in  a  boat,  I  finally,  in  a  burst  of 
impatience,  get  into  a  boat  and  am  rowed  ashore. 
No  sooner  am  I  in  the  boat  than  the  tug  starts. 
However,  the  four  black  men  in  my  boat  pull 
hard  and  we  reach  the  pier  almost  at  the  same 
time  as  the  tug. 

The  first  thing  to  do  is  to  take  a  rickshaw. 
It  is  fine,  but  fortunately  cloudy;  the  sun  is 
hidden.  In  spite  of  this,  it  is  hot,  very  hot.  The 
streets  are  made  of  red  sand,  the  houses  of  Vene- 
tian red  stone.  You  pass  palm  trees,  and  trees 
which  look  like  acacias,  only  they  have  mingled 


52  Round   the  World  in 

with  the  intense  green  of  their  foliage  a  quan- 
tity of  scarlet  flowers.  I  go  scudding  along  the 
street  to  the  Galleface  Hotel.  You  pass  babus 
in  white  European  clothes,  and  frail  black  Cin- 
galese dressed  in  diaphanous  silks,  and  Anglo- 
Indians  in  pith  helmets.  The  world  of  Kipling 
is  revealed  to  one  in  a  trice.  A  long  drive  along 
the  sea  leads  to  the  hotel.  This  is  the  fashionable 
esplanade  of  Ceylon.  Carriages  pass  up  and  down 
full  of  wealthy  natives.  The  sea  throws  up  a 
huge  long  wash  of  booming  surf.  The  hotel  is 
a  large  white  building,  like  the  section  of  an 
exhibition.  The  bedrooms  are  high  wooden 
cubicles.  As  soon  as  you  arrive  a  tailor  springs 
from  somewhere  and  asks  you  if  you  want  any 
clothes  —  thin  clothes  —  made  in  the  night. 
I  don't  think  I  do.  As  soon  as  I  have  got  a  room 
and  disposed  of  my  luggage,  I  take  a  rickshaw 
and  drive  through  the  native  part  of  the  town. 
It  becomes  more  and  more  like  Kipling.  You 
pass  little  bullocks,  and  natives  bathing  and 


Any   Numb  er   of  Days  53 

washing  clothes  in  a  pool;  shops  full  of  fruit; 
natives  squatting,  natives  talking,  natives  smok- 
ing. You  hear  all  manner  of  cries,  and  you  smell 
the  smell  of  the  East. 

I  wander  about  until  it  is  dark  and  then  come 
back  to  dinner.  The  tailor  appears  again.  I 
don't  want  any  clothes:  but  it  is  no  use,  one  has 
to  order  them,  so  importunate  is  he.  He  measures 
me  and  promises  to  have  the  complete  suit  ready 
by  the  next  morning  at  6.30. 

It  is  when  you  are  dressed  for  dinner  and  you 
come  down  into  the  large  high  dining-room,  full 
of  electric  fans,  that  you  realize  that  it  is  impos^ 
sible  to  be  cool.  It  is  an  absorbing,  annihilating 
damp  heat  that  saps  your  very  being. 

The  first  thing  to  do  is  to  eat  a  mango.  Will 
it  be  as  good  as  you  are  told  it  is?  Yes,  it  is 
better.  At  first  you  think  it  is  just  an  ordinary 
apricot,  and  then  you  think  it  is  a  banana;  no, 
fresher;  a  peach,  a  strawberry,  and  then  a  deli- 
cious, sharp,  fresh,  aromatic  after-taste  comes, 


54  Round   the  World  in 

slightly  tinged  with  turpentine,  but  not  bitter. 
Then  you  get  all  the  tastes  at  once,  and  you  know 
that  the  mango  is  like  nothing  else  but  its  own 
incomparable  self. 

It  has  all  these  different  tastes  at  once,  simul- 
taneously. In  this  it  resembles  the  beatific 
vision  as  told  of  by  St.  Thomas  Aquinas.  The 
point  of  the  beatific  vision,  says  St.  Thomas,  is 
its  infinite  variety.  So  that  those  who  enjoy  it 
have  at  the  same  time  the  feeling  that  they  are 
looking  at  a  perfect  landscape,  hearing  the  sweet- 
est music,  bathing  in  a  cold  stream  on  a  hot  day, 
reaching  the  top  of  a  mountain,  galloping  on 
grass  on  a  horse  that  is  n't  running  away,  float- 
ing over  tree-tops  in  a  balloon,  reading  very 
good  verse,  eating  toasted  cheese,  drinking  a 
really  good  cocktail  —  and  any  other  nice  thing 
you  can  think  of,  all  at  once.  The  point,  there- 
fore, of  the  taste  of  the  mango  is  its  infinite 
variety.  It  was  probably  mangoes  which  grew 
in  Eden  on  the  Tree  of  Knowledge,  only  I  expect 


Any   Number  of  Days  55 

they  had  a  different  kind  of  skin  then,  and  were 
without  that  cumbersome  and  obstinate  kernel, 
which  makes  them  so  very  difficult  to  eat. 

There  are  a  good  many  people  at  dinner  — 
Englishmen  and  Englishwomen.  Their  faces 
are  washed  absolutely  chalk-white  by  the  heat, 
as  if  every  drop  of  blood  had  been  drained  from 
them.  That  is  what  comes  from  living  in  such  a 
climate.  One  thinks  of  Kipling  once  more.  The 
room  seems  to  be  full  of  his  characters.  There 
is  Mrs.  Hawksbee;  I  recognised  her  at  once. 
There  is  Otis  Yeere  and  Pluffles,  and  Churton 
and  Reggie  Burke,  and  Pack,  and  I  believe  that 
conjuror  in  the  verandah  is  Strickland  in  dis- 
guise. He  comes  nearer  and  does  the  mango 
trick,  and  then  begins  to  charm  a  snake;  but  we 
all  refuse  to  see  the  snake  charmed,  charm  he 
never  so  wisely,  having  a  horror  of  snakes. 

It  gets  hotter  and  hotter;  one  feels  one's  bones 
melting. 

The   next  morning   punctually   at   6.30   the 


56  Round   the  World 

tailor  arrives  with  the  suit  of  clothes  finished, 
as  he  promised,  and  by  eight  we  have  to  be  on 
board  the  steamer. 

To-day  the  sun  is  shining  with  all  his  might, 
and  one  realizes  that  if  one  had  stayed  a  few 
hours  longer  in  this  beautiful  island,  it  would 
have  entailed  either  buying  a  pith  helmet  or 
getting  a  sunstroke. 

The  harbour  is  a  lovely  sight  in  the  early  morn- 
ing. Church  parties  from  a  British  man-of-war 
are  on  their  way  to  church.  The  sea  is  like  an 
emerald  to-day.  The  little  narrow  native  boats, 
full  of  gorgeous-coloured  fruits,  are  slipping  about 
round  the  liner.  I  am  sorry  to  leave  Ceylon. 


From  Colombo  to  Fremantle :  July 

THE  Indian  Ocean  once  more.  The  weather 
now  is  pleasant,  but  it  is  still  very  hot.  We  are 
in  the  doldrums.  The  word  "  doldrums "  con- 
jures up  visions  of  adventure,  of  pirates,  of 
Spanish  galleons,  of  frigates  fighting  privateers, 
and  of  Marryat's  characters. 

I  don't  believe  a  man  who  is  not  a  sailor  can 
write  a  really  good  book  about  the  sea.  The 
knowledge  involved  is  so  intimate,  and  requires 
years  of  soaking  in.  There  are,  of  course,  excep- 
tions. Shakespeare  has  led  some  people  to  be- 
lieve that,  besides  being  a  lawyer,  a  Lord  Chan- 
cellor, and  a  woman,  he  was  also  a  sailor.  Rud- 
yard  Kipling,  I  should  say,  could  deceive  the 
elect,  and  surely  " Captains  Courageous"  is  one 
of  the  very  best  sea-stories  ever  written.  "  Treas- 
ure Island"  is  an  adventure  book,  and  a  master- 
piece, but  then  it  really  deals  very  little  with  the 
sea.  Turn  to  Marryat:  what  a  difference  there 


58  Round   the  World  in 

is  between  him  and  the  amateur  sea-writer!  You 
feel  that  the  sea  is  his  whole  life;  he  lays  bare 
the  very  pulse  of  the  machine  of  sea-life.  I  wish 
some  of  the  great  novelists  had  spent  their  early 
years  on  a  training-ship.  I  wonder  what  would 
have  been  the  result  had  this  been  the  fate  of 
George  Meredith,  for  instance.  I  think  it  would 
have  made  his  style  more  lucid ;  but  perhaps  not. 
Can  you  imagine  a  ship  of  whom  the  skipper  was 
George  Meredith,  the  first  mate  Henry  James, 
the  second  mate  Thomas  Hardy,  the  purser 
Bernard  Shaw,  the  ship's  cook  G.  K.  Chesterton, 
and  the  steward  Max  Beerbohm?  I  can  imagine 
the  following  conversation  taking  place:  — 

Scene  :  Deck  of  a  Ship  in  the  Indian  Ocean 

CAPTAIN  MEREDITH  (to  First  Mate  James):  I 
think  we  had  better  fiddle  harmonics  on  the  strings 
of  the  mainsail. 

FIRST  MATE  JAMES:  I  mentioned  to  you,  sir,  the 
last  time  that  we  somewhat  infelicitously  met,  that 


Any   Number  of  Days  59 

I  intended  to  appeal,  with  a  dozen  differential  pre- 
cautions, to  another  and  probably  more  closely 
qualified  meteorologic  authority  on  the  subject  of 
the  Second  Mate's  whimsical,  wanton,  perhaps  for- 
tunate but  so  far  unconfirmed  and  unqualified 
change  of  course,  and  indeed,  if  I  may  venture  with- 
out presumption,  and  at  the  risk  of  incurring  the 
suspicion  of  undue  parenthesis,  and  of  an  almost 
tremulous  desire  to  say  everything,  I  would,  and 
indeed  I  had  done  so  already,  but  for  a  fugitive 
shade  of  displeasure  on  your  eyebrows,  I  would 
adumbrate  the  shadow  of  a  surmise,  that,  faced 
as  we  are  — 

CAPTAIN  MEREDITH  (impatiently):  The  young 
who  fear  to  enter  the  forest  of  advice  do  so  at  the 
cost  of  losing  their  way  in  the  lane  that  knows  no 
ending. 

(Enter  Ship's  Cook  Chesterton) 

COOK  CHESTERTON:  The  Purser  complains  of  the 
pea-soup.  He  says  it  is  not  fit  for  a  dog.  It  is  true. 
It  is  not  fit  for  a  dog,  but  the  whole  soul  and  glory 
of  this  fast  and  frantic  life  is  to  eat  and  to  enjoy 
food  that  a  dog  rejects.  He  does  n't  see  that  it  is 
the  dog  who  is  wrong. 


60  Round  the  World  in 

PURSER  SHAW:  I  never  said  that  the  dog  was 
wrong  in  his  choice  of  food.  I  have  no  objection 
to  eating  dog  biscuit;  what  I  do  object  to  is  eating 
dog  soup.  .  .  .  What  I  do  object  to  is  eating  a  soup 
which  professes  to  be  made  of  vegetables  and  in 
reality  is  made  of  dog.  I  see  no  moral  objection 
to  cannibalism.  I  have  no  moral  objection  to  eat- 
ing shoulder  of  boatswain;  but  I  do  object  to  the 
old-fashioned  superstition  of  believing  that  soup 
is  still  made  of  fresh  peas  when  it  is  n't.  That  soup 
was  made  of  old  flesh.  If  you  don't  believe  me,  ask 
the  steward.  Here,  Steward. 

(Enter  Steward  Beerbohm) 

CAPTAIN  MEREDITH:  Our  battle  is  ever  between 
undeserved  rewards  and  stolen  fruits.  What  say 
you,  Steward? 

STEWARD  BEERBOHM:  Let  us  forget  these  bick- 
erings and  turn  ourselves  lightly  to  the  thought  of 
home,  of  Piccadilly,  of  the  artificial  haunts  and  the 
gaudy  hostels,  where  indifferent  cooks  and  careless 
waiters  proffer  inartistically  prepared  mets  to  the 
blase,  the  faded  and  the  jaded  and  the  new  rich, 
who  partake  of  it  with  feigned  satisfaction,  and  pay 
for  it  with  a  faint  but  exquisite  pleasure  in  knowing 
that  the  bill  is  more  than  they  can  afford. 


Any   Number  of  Days  61 

PURSER  SHAW:  Your  Piccadilly  is  here  and  now. 
I  venture  to  submit  that  the  Steward  is  an  in- 
curable romantic.  Now  romance  in  food  is  pre- 
posterous. 

COOK  CHESTERTON:  There  is  nothing  so  romantic 
as  food,  nothing  so  poetic  as  roast  beef,  nothing  so 
fantastic  as  plum-pudding,  nothing  so  lyrical  as 
eggs  and  bacon,  nothing  in  cant  modern  sense  so 
artistic  as  a  mutton  chop,  nothing  so  dreamy  as 
toasted  cheese. 

PURSER  SHAW:  Exactly.  You  are  still  infected 
with  the  poison  of  your  nurseries  and  the  sentiment 
of  Christmas.  I  have  exploded  Christmas.  I  have 
annihilated  the  nursery. 

STEWARD  BEERBOHM:  I  think  Christmas  very 
quaint  and  charming,  and  a  nursery,  conducted 
according  to  the  principles  of  the  early  years  of 
Victoria  the  First,  a  place  of  dainty  manners  and 
delicate  precepts  and  wistful  rhymes.  I  would  not 
forget  them  for  anything. 

FIRST  MATE  JAMES:  The  word  nursery,  now  you 
speak  it,  throws  a  curious  thrill  through  the  lining, 
so  to  speak,  of  the  psychological  situation.  We 


62  Round   the  World  in 

might,  in  fact,  in  such  a  case  even  follow  the  stew- 
ard into  another  and  no  less  refined  a  speculation, 
the  question  of  whether  the  nursery,  the  sanest 
seat  of  moral  ethics,  might  not,  after  all,  be  the 
high  final  if  somewhat  narrow  circle  of  all  ultimate 
—  that  is  to  say  — 

CAPTAIN  MEREDITH:  To  have  the  sense  of  the 
eternal  in  the  nursery  is  nothing.  To  have  had  it 
is  the  beginning  of  wisdom.  But  let  us  rather  put 
off  discussion  of  the  theme,  until  round  the  mahog- 
any we  can  broach  a  bottle  of  the  Old  Widow,  nay 
rather,  Hermitage  —  ah !  that  was  a  great  wine  — 

STEWARD  BEERBOHM:  The  suggestion  of  asceti- 
cism in  the  name,  blent  with  the  sensuality  of  the 
thing,  heightens  its  charm.  Who  would  not  be  a 
hermit,  and  dwell  in  one  of  those  rococo  palacules 
built  for  weary  monarchs  in  an  age  of  scepticism, 
flute-playing,  and  minuets? 

(Enter  Second  Mate  Hardy) 

SECOND  MATE  HARDY:  The  spirit _of  the  years  is 
looking  down  upon  our  ship  with  an  ironical  smile. 
O  Wessex,  Wessex!  Would  that  I  could  see  Stone- 
henge  and  a  large  red  moon  rising  over  the  plain. 


THERE    IS    NOTHING    SO    ROMANTIC   AS    FOOD 


Any   Number  of  Days  63 

CAPTAIN  MEREDITH:  I  am  glad  to  be  away  from 
the  island  of  chills  and  the  informes  hiemes. 

PURSER  SHAW:  Sir,  with  all  due  respect,  I  cannot 
allow  this  digression  to  continue.  No  Englishman 
can  talk  consecutively  for  more  than  two  minutes 
on  the  same  subject. 

COOK  CHESTERTON:  That  is  why  the  Irish  have 
conquered  England. 

CAPTAIN  MEREDITH:  Observe  the  Southern  Cross, 
if  indeed  that  be  the  Southern  Cross,  hanging  like 
a  jeweled  hilt  in  the  spheral  blue  — 

STEWARD  BEERBOHM:  Pretty  little  trinket!  Is 
it  a  brooch  or  an  aigrette?  Methinks  a  device  of 
Cartier  — 

CAPTAIN  MEREDITH:  Those  stars  are  pebbles  on 
the  silvery  wheel-course  of  the  chariot  of  the  moon. 

SECOND  MATE  HARDY:  Pitiless,  inflexible  stars, 
thousands  and  thousands  of  millions  of  miles  away. 

PURSER  SHAW:  Don't  you  believe  it.  That 's  one 
of  the  lies  men  of  science  tell  us. 


64  Round   the  Worldin 

COOK  CHESTERTON:  It  does  n't  matter  if  the  stars 
are  twenty  miles  off,  or  twenty  millions  of  miles  off. 
The  point  about  the  stars  is  that  they  are  stars. 

(Enter  an  Ordinary  Seaman)  \ 
ORDINARY  SEAMAN:  Please,  sir,  the  ship  is  sinking. 

SECOND  MATE  HARDY:  I  knew  it!  O  Irony! 

PURSER  SHAW:  Then  we  shall  have  to  eat  roast 
boatswain  after  all. 

FIRST  MATE  JAMES:  If  I  might  hazard  a  sugges- 
tion, without  of  course  trying  to  grasp  any  imper- 
tinent or  rather  importunate  shadow  of  a  scheme  — 

ORDINARY  SEAMAN:  The  cabin  boy  has  escaped 
in  the  galley. 

CAPTAIN  MEREDITH:  O  brave! 
STEWARD  BEERBOHM:  Ouf ! 

(The  ship  sinks  with  all  hands.) 

To-night  (when  is  it?  I  have  lost  count  of  time, 


Any   Number  of  Days  65 

but  I  know  it  is  still  July)  one  of  the  officers 
told  me  a  yarn.  It  was  his  own  ghost  story,  and 
it  was  ultimately  spoiled  for  him,  just  as  hap- 
pened in  the  case  of  Kipling,  when  he  heard 
phantom  billiard  players  playing  all  night  and 
found  out  the  next  day  that  the  noise  was  caused 
by  a  rat  and  a  loose  window-sash.  This  is  the 
story;  but  I  shall  spoil  it  in  the  telling  because 
to  tell  a  sea-yarn  you  must  be  a  sailor. 

The  ship  was  sailing  somewhere  near  the  Cape 
of  Good  Hope.  It  was  dirty  weather  and  the 
sailor  who  was  on  watch  came  and  reported  to 
the  officer  that  there  was  a  ghost  in  the  sea, 
for'ard. 

The  officer  sent  him  away,  but  he  returned 
almost  immediately  and  reported  that  the  ghost 
was  still  there. 

The  officer  said  rude  things,  and  added  that 
he  had  better  go  aloft  and  watch  the  ghost  from 
there.  Another  man  was  sent  to  replace  the 
craven,  and  all  was  calm  for  a  while,  when  sud- 


66  Round  the  World  in 

denly  this  second  sailor  came  back,  pale  with 
fear,  and  said  that  a  woman  was  rising  through 
the  mist  from  the  sea.  Some  one  else  was  sent 
to  replace  this  man,  and  the  ghost  had  such  an 
effect  upon  him  that  he  fell  down  and  broke  his 
leg.  Then  the  captain  came  on  deck  and  the 
officer  reported  the  state  of  affairs  to  him.  He 
went  forward  and  came  back  saying,  "It  is  a 
ghost."  Then,  being  a  religious  man,  he  fetched 
a  Bible  and  tried  to  exorcise  the  ghost  by  reading 
the  Scripture. 

While  this  was  going  on,  the  officer  who  told 
me  the  story  went  forward,  and  there,  as  plain 
as  a  pikestaff,  in  the  murky  mist,  he  saw  a  white 
woman  slowly  rise  in  the  swell  and  then  disap- 
pear. Paralysed  with  horror,  he  stood  looking 
at  the  sea,  and  the  woman  rose  once  more;  and 
then,  his  fear  left  him,  and  he  realized  that  it- 
was  the  figurehead  of  the  ship  which  had  got 
knocked  off. 

But  I  have  spoiled  that  story.   I  have  merely 


Any   Number   of  Days  67 

told  the  bare  facts;  what  you  want  is  the  whole 
thing;  the  dialogue,  the  details;  the  technical 
terms. 

From  Colombo  to  Fremantle  is  probably  the 
most  monotonous  part  of  the  voyage.  The  only 
object  of  interest  is  the  albatross,  but  as  nobody 
shot  one,  with  a  crossbow,  no  untoward  events 
happened. 


Fremantle ;  July 

FREMANTLE  is  the  least  attractive  of  ports. 
You  are  not  meant  to  stay  there.  You  are  meant 
to  go  on  to  Perth.  Nevertheless,  it  was  my  first 
sight  of  an  Australian  city.  It  struck  me  as 
being  in  some  ways  rather  like  a  Russian  pro- 
vincial town;  this  is  not  odd,  because  Russia 
is  a  country  of  colonists.  What  differentiates 
a  Russian  city  from  an  Australian  —  and  indeed 
from  any  other  city  —  is  the  churches  with 
their  gilded  spires  and  blue  cupolas  and  their 
Byzantine  shape. 

At  Fremantle  the  firemen  went  on  shore  — 
against  orders.  They  drank  to  their  hearts' 
content,  and  came  back  in  a  state  of  truculent 
inebriation,  as  did  many  of  the  steerage  passen- 
gers. We  left  Fremantle  in  the  evening.  There 
was  a  strong  wind  blowing.  Two  little  tugs  were 
doing  their  best  to  pull  us  out  of  the  narrow  har- 
bour. They  could  scarcely  pull  their  own  weight; 


Round   the  World  69 

and  then  one  of  the  hawsers  broke.  We  drifted 
to  port  where  alongside  of  the  wharf  some  cargo 
steamers  lay  at  anchor. 

"Hullo!"  said  somebody;  "we  shall  only  just 
do  it." 

The  passengers  became  interested. 

Then  it  became  evident  that  we  were  n't  going 
just  to  do  it;  and  we  went  — crunch!  crunch!  — 
into  the  steamers  alongside  the  wharf,  carrying 
away  the  wooden  gear  they  had  to  put  cattle  in. 

Then  began  a  slow  battle  of  the  tugs  against 
the  wind;  whenever  we  seemed  to  be  moving 
to  starboard,  the  wind  brought  us  back  again  to 
the  wharf.  It  looked  at  one  moment  as  if  we 
were  going  to  be  there  all  night.  Two  of  the  fire- 
men were  fighting  forward.  Then  the  wind 
dropped  a  little,  our  own  engines  began  to  work, 
and  we  steamed  safely  out  of  the  harbour. 

We  did  hardly  any  damage  to  the  ship  against 
which  we  crunched,  except  carrying  away  that 
wooden  gear ;  but  the  moment  any  little  incident 


jo  Round   the  World 

of  that  kind  happens  in  a  ship,  it  makes  you 
realize  instantly  how  disagreeable  a  real  accident 
would  be.  These  large  ships  look  so  helpless 
under  such  circumstances:  and  after  all,  when 
accidents  happen,  they  happen,  whether  a  ship 
is  in  harbour  or  in  midocean,  whether  she  is  large 
or  small:  witness  the  Royal  George  and  the 
Titanic. 


Adelaide :  July 

WE  reached  Adelaide  on  a  Saturday  night, 
and  on  Sunday  morning  I  went  on  shore  and 
saw  for  the  first  time  the  dark-brown  colouring, 
the  scrub,  and  the  gum-trees  of  Australia.  It 
was  supposed  to  be  winter;  but  it  was  what  we 
call  in  England  early  spring,  because  the  almond 
trees  were  in  full  bloom.  The  atmosphere  was 
dazzingly  clear  but  cold.  The  whole  colour  and 
nature  of  the  place,  with  its  dark  evergreens, 
brown  earth,  luxuriant  winter  vegetation,  and  its 
blue  and  lilac  hills  in  the  distance,  and  its  limpid 
sky,  reminded  me  of  the  south  of  France  in  win- 
ter; but  Australia  has  a  peculiar  atmosphere  of 
its  own  which,  if  properly  painted,  ought  to  make 
the  fortune  of  a  painter.  There  are  some  very 
clever  Australian  painters. 

Adelaide  is  called  the  "Garden  City"  of  Aus- 
tralia. It  deserves  the  name,  for  it  looks  like  a 
garden  even  in  winter.  The  hotels  are  good,  the 


72  Round  the  World  in 

streets  spacious  and  wide  boulevards,  and  there 
is  the  most  beautifully  situated  steeplechase 
course  I  have  ever  seen.  It  being  Sunday,  every- 
thing was  shut:  this  made  occupation  in  the  city 
less  interesting  than  it  might  have  been,  and  it 
was  too  cold  to  motor  into  the  hills. 

At  Adelaide  fourteen  firemen  left  the  ship  for- 
ever. The  trouble  about  firemen  on  the  mail 
steamers  that  go  to  Australia  is  that  they  are 
white  men.  They  cannot  stand  the  heat  of  the 
tropics  and  they  do  not  earn  a  living  wage. 

"Who,"  as  the  chief  engineer  said  to  me, 
"would  not  be  a  fireman  in  the  Red  Sea  in  July, 
when  the  temperature  is  120  in  the  shade?  And 
who  would  not  be  a  man  who  has  to  look  after 
firemen?" 

One  cannot  travel  on  a  big  liner  without  being 
amazed,  or  rather  aghast,  at  the  conditions  under 
which  the  crew  and  the  stewards  live  in  the  mer- 
chant service,  and  the  terms  under  which  the 
officers  serve,  so  that  one  wonders  how  it  happens 


Any   Number  of  Days  73 

that  any  one  goes  to  sea;  and  one  is  inclined  al- 
most to  agree  with  Dr.  Johnson's  opinions  on  the 
subject. 

"A  ship,"  he  said,  "is  worse  than  a  gaol.  There 
is  in  a  gaol  better  air,  better  company,  better 
conveniences  of  every  kind;  and  a  ship  has 
the  additional  disadvantage  of  being  in  danger. 
When  men  come  to  like  a  sea-life  they  are  not 
fit  to  live  on  land." 

"Then,"  said  Boswell,  "it  would  be  cruel  in  a 
father  to  breed  his  son  to  the  sea." 

"It  would  be  cruel,"  said  Johnson,  "in  a 
father  who  thinks  as  I  do.  Men  go  to  sea  before 
they  know  the  unhappiness  of  that  way  of  life; 
and  when  they  come  to  know  it,  they  cannot 
escape  from  it,  because  it  is  then  too  late  to 
choose  another  profession;  as,  indeed,  is  generally 
the  case  with  men  when  they  have  once  engaged 
in  any  particular  way  of  life." 

But  what  is  wrong  with  the  officer's  life  in 
the  merchant  service?  it  will  be  asked. 


74  Round   the  World  in 

The  answer  is  that  he  is  miserably  underpaid. 
In  some  cases  he  gets  less  than  an  able  seaman 
gets  in  Australia.  He  has  to  buy  linen,  his  uni- 
form, many  pairs  of  whites.  His  work  is  one 
of  great  responsibility.  A  captain  when  he  has 
worked  for  twenty  years  gets  no  pension.  Talk 
with  any  officer  in  the  merchant  service  and  his 
advice  to  any  one  who  thinks  of  going  to  sea  is, 
"Don't." 

As  to  the  men,  a  sailor's  life  in  a  liner  is  about 
the  same  as  a  sailor's  life  anywhere,  but  the 
accommodation  of  the  stewards  is  miserable. 
The  "glory-hole"  where  they  sleep  crowded  to^- 
gether  has  an  almost  incredible  insufficiency  of 
space  and  air.  And  a  first-class  steward  has  to 
keep  himself  neat  and  clean:  besides  which  he 
is  extremely  hard-worked. 

Talking  of  the  recent  dock  strike  in  London 
with  one  of  the  stewards,  he  told  me  they  did  n't 
want  to  come  out  in  sympathy  with  the  strikers, 
because  they  got  absolutely  nothing  by  it.  They 


Any   Number   of  Days  75 

were  most  of  them  made  to  come  out  on  strike, 
with  no  prospect  of  any  betterment  in  matters 
which  concerned  them. 

I  don't  believe  the  stewards'  accommodation 
in  a  ship  is  a  bit  better  than  it  was  forty 
years  ago. 


Melbourne :  July 

I  PRACTICALLY  only  had  a  glimpse  of  Mel- 
bourne; a  drive  through  the  city,  a  visit  to  a 
newspaper  office  and  to  some  of  the  shops,  a 
walk  through  the  park  in  the  twilight,  a  dinner 
with  a  friend,  and  a  drive  in  a  taxi  back  to  the 
harbour. 

I  was  struck  by  the  mildness  of  the  climate; 
but  I  was  told  that  up  till  then  the  weather  had 
been  very  cold.  I  was  struck  here  again  by  the 
softness  and  peculiar  luminous  quality  of  the 
atmosphere;  by  the  size  of  the  city,  which  seemed 
quite  enormous;  a  handsome  city,  with  regular 
streets,  tall  buildings,  and  a  multitude  of  cars. 


Sydney :  August  2 

WE  entered  the  bay  in  the  dawn  —  or  rather 
before  the  dawn;  it  was  very  misty;  we  moved 
in  a  vague  twilight  of  blue  shadows.  I  got  up 
to  see  the  bay,  but  you  could  see  nothing  dis- 
tinctly, nothing  but  mist  and  blue  shadows;  the 
whole  thing  very  unearthly]  and  beautiful.  I 
went  back  to  my  bunk,  intending  to  get  up 
again  in  half  an  hour's  time,  when  it  was  lighter. 
But  I  went  to  sleep,  and  when  I  woke  up  again 
we  were  right  against  the  wharf. 

You  could  hear  the  bugles  from  a  British 
man-of-war,  the  Drake.  It  was  a  brilliant,  warm, 
delicious'day. 

I  spent  a  whole  day  in  the  city  of  Sydney, 
exploring  the  stores,  riding  about  aimlessly  in 
the  cars.  I  had  luncheon  at  the  Australian  Hotel. 
The  waiters  were  dressed  as  stewards,  and,  in- 
deed, many  of  them  are  ex-stewards.  I  thought  the 
food  excellent.  I  visited  two  excellent  bookstores. 


78  Round  the  World  in 

When  you  go  to  a  bookstore  in  London  and 
ask  for  any  book,  you  are  told  they  have  n't 
got  it.  Here  in  Sydney  I  found  the  men  in  the 
stores  abnormally  intelligent.  You  could  even 
get  different  kinds  of  books  written  by  the  same 
author,  which  is  a  difficult  feat  anywhere.  Most 
booksellers  think  that  if  a  man  writes  a  book  on, 
say,  poultry,  it  is  preposterous  to  ask  for  a  work 
of  his  on  political  economy  or  step-dancing.  And 
yet  it  happens  that  many  writers  write  books  on 
different  subjects  —  Andrew  Lang,  for  instance. 
We  received  the  sad  news  of  the  death  of  An- 
drew Lang  at  Fremantle.  Andrew  Lang  is  an 
author  who  spent  the  large  capital  of  his  wit,  his 
learning,  his  wide  sympathies,  royally  and  gen- 
erously without  stint;  he  was  a  master  of  Eng- 
lish prose,  and  some  of  the  best  pieces  of  prose 
he  ever  wrote  were  flung  into  leaders  in  the 
"Daily  News."  Those  which  were  afterwards 
collected  in  a  book  called  "Lost  Leaders"  make 
the  most  delightful  reading.  He  wrote  just  as 


IN   SYDNEY   I    FOUND  THE   MEN    IN   THE  BOOKSTORES   ABNORMALLY 
INTELLIGENT 


Any   Number  of  Days  79 

well  and  just  as  wittily  on  street  noises  or  mid- 
summer heat  as  on  Homer,  the  Young  Pretender, 
or  Joan  of  Arc.  He  was  profoundly  unprovincial ; 
he  had  a  fine  and  rare  quiet  appreciation  of 
French  poetry;  he  could  write  ghost  stories, 
fairy  tales,  doggerel;  he  was  a  supreme  dialec- 
tician, an  amusing  parodist,  a  prince  of  letter- 
writers,  as  well  as  a  poet ;  —  perhaps  he  was  above 
all  things  a  poet.  The  following  translation  of 
Rufinus'  verses  to  Rhodocleia,  sending  her  a 
wreath,  is  a  good  example  of  his  verse.  He  has 
turned  an  exquisite  Greek  poem  into  an  exquis- 
ite English  poem. 

"Ah,  Golden  Eyes,  to  win  you  yet, 
I  bring  mine  April  coronet. 
The  lovely  blossoms  of  the  spring 
For  you  I  weave,  to  you  I  bring 
These  roses  with  the  lilies  set, 
The  dewy  dark-eyed  violet, 
Narcissus,  and  the  wind-flower  wet: 
Wilt  thou  disdain  mine  offering? 
Ah,  Golden  Eyes! 


8o  Round   the   World  in 

Crowned  with  thy  lover's  flowers,  forget 
The  pride  wherein  thy  heart  is  set, 
For  thou,  like  these  or  anything, 
Hast  but  a  moment  of  thy  spring, 
Thy  spring,  and  then  —  the  long  regret! 
Ah,  Golden  Eyes!" 

To  go  back  to  Sydney  and  the  stores.  The 
trouble  is  I  cannot  remember  either  of  their 
names.  I  had  dinner  at  a  restaurant  called  the 
Palace  Hotel,  and  after  dinner  I  visited  the 
office  of  the  Sydney  "Herald,"  where  I  spent  a 
very  pleasant  time.  I  had  already  been  met  by 
two  interviewers  in  the  morning,  and  they  asked 
me  whether  I  was  going  to  write  anything  about 
Australia.  I  said  No,  that  I  had  no  intention  of 
so  doing,  as  I  did  not  believe  in  writing  seriously 
about  a  country  where  one  does  n't  make  a  proper 
stay.  Practically  I  saw  nothing  of  Australia; 
but  I  suppose  there  is  no  harm  in  writing  these 
notes  —  the  mere  rough  impressions  of  a  fugi- 
tive traveller. 

Although  I  was  only  twelve  hours  in  Sydney, 


Any   Number  of  Days  81 

I  had  occasion  to  notice  the  hospitality  of  the 
people.  What  struck  me  also  was  the  life  and 
gaiety  of  the  place. 

The  next  morning,  which  was  Saturday,  I  had 
to  leave  the  liner,  which  had  been  my  home  for 
the  last  six  weeks,  and  embark  on  the  Maun- 
ganui  for  Wellington,  whither  I  was  bound. 

The  Maunganui,  which  belongs  to  the  Union 
Steamship  Company,  is  a  new  vessel,  and  quite 
extraordinarily  comfortable.  The  voyage  from 
Sydney  to  Wellington  takes  from  Saturday  to 
Wednesday,  but  sometimes  if  the  weather  is  bad 
it  takes  longer. 

As  we  steamed  out  of  Sydney,  I  at  last  had  a 
view  of  the  famous  bay,  and  it  exceeded  all  my 
expectations :  the  colouring  is  so  rich,  the  lines  and 
shape  of  the  coast  are  so  nobly  planned,  and  the 
sky  and  the  sea  are  so  intoxicatingly  bright, 
fresh,  and  dazzling.  I  am  sorry  for  people  who 
are  disappointed  in  Sydney. 


On  Board  the  Maunganui:  August 

THE  ship  is  crowded  with  passengers.  There 
is  a  very  comfortable  smoking-room  on  the  upper 
deck.  The  ship  is  beautifully  clean  and  new- 
looking.  She  is  a  new  ship.  She  made  her  first 
voyage  in  February,  1912. 

There  are  on  board  fifty  "boys"  who  are  going 
to  Buenos  Ay  res.  There  are  engineers.  As  for 
the  rest  of  the  passengers,  there  are  many  men, 
many  women,  and  many  children.  The  sea  is 
unusually  smooth  —  unusually,  that  is  to  say, 
for  this  part  of  the  ocean,  which  I  am  told  is 
generally  rough. 

I  settle  myself  down  to  read  O'Brien's  "Life 
of  Parnell,"  one  of  the  best  biographies  in  the 
English  language. 

I  think  a  ship  is  the  pleasantest  place  to  read 
in  in  the  world.  First,  you  have  the  advan- 
tages of  being  indoors  and  out  of  doors  at  the 
same  time,  if  you  sit  on  a  deck  chair,  or  in  a 


Round  the   World  83 

smoking-room  near  an  open  door.  Secondly, 
you  are  just  sufficiently  and  not  too  much  inter- 
rupted. You  can  pause  and  watch  the  passengers. 
You  overhear  scraps  of  talk.  You  engage  your- 
self in  desultory  conversation. 

But  during  all  this  first  afternoon  I  am  riveted 
by  the  doings  of  Parnell  —  the  man  who,  so 
cold  and  aloof,  exercised  an  electric  power  over 
the  rest  of  his  fellow  creatures:  the  man  who 
smashed  the  machinery  of  the  House  of  Com- 
mons, in  order  to  compel  the  British  to  deal 
with  the  Irish  question. 

I  was  at  school  when  some  of  the  most  stir- 
ring acts  of  that  drama  were  being  played.  All 
schoolboys  are,  of  course,  "Conservatives,"  and 
our  schoolmaster  was  a  fanatical  Tory.  The 
mere  mention  of  Mr.  Gladstone's  name  mad- 
dened him,  and  I  remember  one  day  his  telling 
the  boys  that  he  had  received  a  circular  from 
some  political  Liberal  association,  and  that  he 
intended  to  send  it  back  to  the  secretary  with 


84  Round   the  World  in 

a  penny  inside  it,  so  that  the  sender  should  have 
to  pay  eightpence.  This  was  a  good  civic  lesson 
for  the  young!  All  the  boys  professed  to  be 
staunch  Tories;  but  if  it  was  discovered  that 
one's  parents  were  Liberals,  one  was  labelled 
Liberal.  This  was  my  unfortunate  predicament. 

The  general  election  of  1885  took  place  when 
I  was  at  school.  The  Head  Master  addressed  the 
school  when  it  began,  and  he  prefaced  his  speech 
by  saying,  "There  are  only  seven  Liberals  in 
the  school."  This  was  nice  for  the  Liberals. 

On  the  5th  of  November  an  effigy  of  Cham- 
berlain was  burned  in  the  garden.  The  effigy 
bore  a  large  cardboard  cow  with  the  words 
"Three  Acres"  written  on  it.  Years  afterwards 
I  described  this  incident  in  an  article  for  a  Lon- 
don daily.  In  mentioning  Chamberlain  I  added 
the  words,  "who  was  at  that  time  a  radical." 
The  editor  crossed  out  these  words.  The  Con- 
servative readers  of  this  daily  were  not  to  be 
reminded  that  Chamberlain  had  ever  been  a 


Any   Number  of  Days  85 

radical.  It  seemed  almost  like  blasphemy  to 
hint  at  such  a  thing.  And  yet  it  was  true.  Un- 
less history  be  suppressed  altogether,  the  fact 
will  have  to  go  down  to  posterity  that  in  1885 
Chamberlain  was  a  radical.  It  seemed  a  terrible 
shame  in  those  days  that  one's  parents  should 
be  on  what,  in  the  opinion  of  one's  world,  was 
obviously  the  wrong  side. 

English  private  schools  are,  or  were,  the  most 
curious  institutions  in  the  world.  The  parents 
of  to-day  say  they  are  entirely  changed  and 
altered.  They  may  be;  but  one  thing  is  quite 
certain,  the  parents  don't  know.  The  only  peo- 
ple who  know  are  the  boys,  and  they  don't  reveal 
the  secrets  of  the  fortress  until  they  are  grown 
up;  but,  judging  by  what  grown-up  boys  of 
twenty  now  tell  one,  they  do  not  seem  to  me  to 
be  greatly  changed. 

My  school  was  totally  unlike  the  schools  de- 
picted in  fiction  and  pictured  by  the  boyish 
imagination.  There  were  no  bullies  —  at  least, 


86  Round   the  World  in 

not  among  the  boys;  the  masters  did  the  bully- 
ing. They  exercised  a  reign  of  terror;  they  ruled 
by  mysterious  hints  and  vague  threats,  so  that 
one  moved  perpetually  under  the  shadow  of  an 
impending  but  unknown  doom.  The  sense  of 
guilt  for  some  crime  which  one  did  n't  know  the 
nature  of  was  perpetually  being  brought  home 
to  one.  And  the  boys  used  to  catch  the  tone  of 
mystery,  and  act  as  if  they  formed  part  of  the 
conspiracy,  which,  of  course,  they  did  n't.  They 
were  all  equally  in  the  dark. 

The  discretion  of  boys  is  extraordinary:  their 
fear  of  giving  anything  away;  their  constant 
profession  of  happiness,  in  spite  of  obvious  mis- 
ery. But  then,  of  course,  it  must  be  remembered 
that  they  accept  the  conditions  of  school  life  as 
the  best  that  life  has  to  offer.  They  think  that 
is  happiness. 

In  the  evening  after  dinner  some  of  the  "  boys" 
played  poker.  Gradually  I  made  their  acquaint- 


Any   Number   of  Days  87 

ance.  One  of  them  told  me  of  the  life  in  Buenos 
Ayres.  He  asked  me  to  lend  him  a  book.  He  had 
a  pal  who  read  books,  and  was  in  fact  reading, 
he  said,  a  book  which  he  believed  to  be  the  best 
book  in  print.  That  was  a  nice  phrase,  and  I 
have  already  quoted  it.  He  fetched  the  book: 
it  turned  out  to  be  "Monte  Cristo."  I  agree  as 
to  the  description  of  it. 

In  another  book  on  English  prisons  I  have 
read  just  lately,  called  "A  Holiday  in  Gaol," 
the  writer  says  that  "Monte  Cristo"  was  en- 
gaged half  a  dozen  deep  by  the  prisoners  at 
Wormwood  Scrubbs. 

The  "boy"  turned  over  the  leaves  of  "Monte 
Cristo"  and  came  across  the  name  "Sinbad  the 
Sailor,"  and  asked  me  whether  it  was  the  same 
story  as  "Sinbad  the  Sailor,"  because  he  had 
seen  that  played  at  Sydney,  and  could  nTt  make 
it  out.  It  is,  indeed,  not  very  easy  to  make  out 
the  story  of  "Sinbad  the  Sailor"  from  a  panto- 
mime version. 


88  Round   the  World  in 

I  saw  this  actual  version  of  "  Sinbad  the  Sailor" 
later  in  Wellington,  and  a  very  good  pantomime 
it  was;  but  lucidity  and  cohesion  of  plot  were 
not  its  strongest  points. 

In  Sydney  pantomimes  go  on  all  the  year 
round,  I  am  told,  and  not  only  at  Christmas  time, 
as  in  England. 

I  was  playing  patience  after  dinner.  This  led 
to  talking  of  fortune-telling  by  cards,  and  one 
of  the  Sydney  "boys"  asked  me  to  tell  his 
fortune,  which  I  did,  as  well  as  that  of  five  or 
six  others.  The  next  day  one  of  them  informed 
me  that  I  had  told  their  fortunes  "to  a  tick." 

Let  me  hastily  say  that  I  don't  believe  there 
is  anything  in  it;  but  cards  are  uncanny  things 
all  the  same,  and  fruitful  in  odd  coincidences. 

Once  when  I  was  travelling  in  Russia  I  met  a 
man  who  professed  to  tell  fortunes  by  cards. 
It  was  in  a  third-class  railway  carriage  and  the 
man  was  a  poor  man.  This  is  how  he  did  it.  He 
told  one  to  wish,  and  then  dealt  out  his  cards  in 


Any   Number   of  Days  89 

the  orthodox  manner;  but  he  added,  "When 
you  wish,  you  mustn't  think  of  a  green  horse  or 
else  your  wish  won't  come  true."  As  if  after  being 
told  such  a  thing  one  could  help  thinking  of  a 
green  horse. 

I  am  reading  a  book  by  that  delightful  author, 
William  de  Morgan,  called  "Somehow  Good." 
He  is  one  of  those  authors  who  does  the  work  for 
you.  The  book  reads  itself:  just  in  the  same  way 
as  Italian  servants  say  that  crockery  breaks. 
For  instance,  an  Italian  servant  never  says,  "The 
cook  has  broken  a  plate,"  but  "A  plate  has 
broken  itself  to  the  cook."  (Si  e  rotto  un  piatto 
alia  cuoca.) 

I  have  often  wondered  how  housemaids  ac- 
quired the  apparently  innate  genius  they  pos- 
sess for  breaking  things.  It  certainly  amounts 
to  genius;  for  it  happens  automatically  and  sud- 
denly, as  if  prompted  by  divine  and  authentic 
inspiration.  The  gift  is  apparently  shared  by 


go  Round  the  World  in 

steerage  passengers  in  a  liner.  The  chief  officer 
of  the  liner  in  which  I  travelled  from  England  told 
me,  before  we  had  reached  Fremantle,  that 
twelve  hundred  glasses  had  been  broken  in  the 
steerage.  (There  were  eight  hundred  passengers.) 

Sailors  and  Chinamen  never  break  anything; 
but,  on  the  other  hand,  there  is  nothing  that 
children  will  not  break.  Children  are  like  white 
ants ;  they  are  entirely  destructive,  and  they  con- 
struct nothing,  except  sand  castles.  And  sand 
is  the  best  safety-valve  for  the  terrible  and  un- 
limited powers  of  childhood  that  exists. 

This  has  been  noted  by  the  poet,  who  says:  — 

"  On  the  other  hand, 
Children  in  ordinary  dress 
May  always  play  with  sand." 

•          •          •          .          •          •          •          •          • 

In  reading  through  the  last  pages  that  I  have 

written,  I  am  struck  by  the  fact  that  there  is 

very  little  about  travel  in  these  supposed  notes 

on  travel.    The  word   longitude  has   not  yet 


YOU  MUSTN'T  THINK  OF  A  GREEN  HORSE 


Any  Number  of  Days  91 

occurred,  and  no  scrap  of  information  that  could 
be  of  any  possible  practical  use  to  any  one  has 
yet  been  given.  Does  it  matter? 

Practical  information  can  be  sought  for  in 
guidebooks.  I  say  sought  for  purposely,  for  it 
can  really  only  be  obtained  by  experience.  As 
for  geographical  details,  I  cannot  think  that  the 
perusal  of  them  is  very  interesting.  And  then, 
in  writing  on  random  subjects  under  a  mislead- 
ing title,  I  am  only  following  well-known  prece- 
dents. For  instance,  if  you  buy  a  modern  book 
on  "Gardening,"  what  do  you  find?  You  open 
the  book,  say,  at  the  chapter  headed  "June," 
and  you  find  this  kind  of  thing:  — 

I  don't  think  the  pictures  in  the  Royal  Academy 
are  so  good  this  year  as  they  were  last:  but  the  aver- 
age level  is  on  the  whole  higher.  I  remember  Lord 
Melbourne  saying  that  the  Academy  was  the  only 
picture  gallery  he  really  enjoyed,  because  the  pic- 
tures told  one  stories  and  there  was  no  damned  non- 
sense of  art  about  them.  I  am  sorry  that  the  girls 
of  the  present  day  are  no  longer  taught  sketching. 
Every  girl  should  be  able  to  sketch  badly.  Albums 


92  Round  the  World  in 

of  sketches,  made  on  the  Continent,  are  a  great 
resource  on  rainy  Saturdays,  and  do  well  to  sell  at 
bazaars. 

Italy  is  a  good  subject  for  sketching.  Apropos  of 
Italy,  I  came  across  the  following  poem  in  the  South 
Wiltshire  "Gazette."  It  was  said  to  be  by  Words- 
worth, but  a  kind  correspondent  tells  me  that  it 
is  really  by  Miss  Ellen  F.  Winthrope,  who  died 
at  Beverly,  Massachusetts,  in  1887,  at  the  age  of 
seventy- three:  — 

Lines  written  at  Florence 

Look  upward,  for  the  sky  is  not  all  cloud. 
Look  forward,  think  not  of  the  dismal  shroud. 
No  lane  but  has  a  turning,  and  no  road 
That  leads  not  somewhere  to  a  warm  abode. 
Take  courage.  If  the  day  seems  rather  long, 
The  cooling  dew  will  fall  at  evensong. 

Believe,  and  Doubt  is  sure  to  slink  away, 
Doubt  is  a  cur;  and  Fear  is  but  a  fool; 
Rely  upon  yourself  and  let  your  stay 
Be  the  observance  of  the  heavenly  rule. 
Never  say  die;  and  do  not  be  afraid; 
At  eventide  the  wages  will  be  paid. 

A  Dutch  friend  of  mine  gave  me  the  following 
very  good  recipe  for  cooking  anchovies:  "Take  an 


Any   Number  of  Days  93 

old  garden  hat,  boil  for  seven  minutes  in  boiling 
water.  Add  four  pounds  of  cinnamon,  one  nutmeg, 
and  half  a  glass  of  Chablis.  Cut  the  anchovies  in 
pieces  and  place  on  china  plate.  Pour  the  boiling 
water  over  them,  and  serve  tepid  with  slices  of 
lemon. " 

Another  friend  of  mine  gave  me  this  quaint,  old- 
fashioned  recipe  for  boiling  a  turkey:  "Gather  straw- 
berry leaves  on  Lamas  Eve,  press  them  in  the  dis- 
tillery until  the  aromatick  perfume  thereof  becomes 
sensible.  Take  a  fat  turkey  and  pluck  him,  and 
baste  him,  then  enfold  him  carefully  in  the  straw- 
berry leaves.  Then  boyl  him  in  water  from  the 
well,  and  add  rosemary,  rue,  parsefoil,  passevelours, 
carraway,  floramour,  velvet  flower,  lavender,  this- 
tles, stinging  nettles,  and  other  sweet  smelling 
herbs.  Add  also  a  pinte  of  Canary  wine,  and  half 
pound  of  butter  and  one  of  ginger  passed  through 
the  sieve.  Serve  with  plums  and  stewed  raisons 
and  a  little  salt.  Cover  him  with  a  silver  dish  cover. 
The  Compleat  Cook,  1656." 

Appended  to  this  was  the  quaint  motto:  — 

"Live  and  learne,  for  flowyrres  fade, 
June  waiteth  not  for  man  or  mayde." 

That  is  the  kind  of  thing  you  will  find  in  the 


94  Round   the   Worldin 

June  chapter  of  the  modern  book  on  "Garden- 
ing." 

Then,  if  you  take  a  book  on  a  definite  place, 
called,  say,  Rome.  What  do  you  find?  Facts? 
No.  Dates?  No.  But  something  like  this:  — 

The  Spirit  of  Rome  (with  apologies  to  Vernon  Lee) 

May  ii.  We  drove  this  afternoon  to  the  Villa 
Madama;  on  the  way  we  talked  of  Richard  Strauss 
and  the  non-melodic  musicians.  Strauss  is  a  Diony- 
siac.  We  compared  his  prophetic  mood-music  with 
the  old-fashioned  facile  melodies  of  Wagner  that 
pleased  our  youth.  While  we  were  talking  a  shep- 
herd passed  us.  As  he  passed  he  took  off  his  hat  and 
said,  "Buon  giorno."  Very  Roman  that. 

May  27.  Porta  Pia.  A  ragged  cloud  in  the  west 
and  the  sun  shining  very  pale  and  watery.  Passed 

a  man  playing  a  harmonium.  P insisted  on 

stopping  to  listen  and  the  man  asked  him  the  time. 

This  is  the  kind  of  thing  that  only  happens  to  P 

and  in  Rome. 

May  31.  Mount  Aventine.  S and  I  strolled 

iip  the  hill.  We  walked  into  a  church  (blonde  mar- 
bles and  seaweed-coloured  pillars) .  A  woman  dressed 
in  a  bonnet  and  black  silk  came  in  and  said  her 


Any   Number  of  Days  95 

prayers.    S said  this  reminded  her  of  Boston. 

Why? 

June  2.  Sunday.  Heard  a  sermon  in  the  after- 
noon at  the  church  of  St.  Praxed.  (Alas!  the  tomb 
of  Browning's  Bishop  is  not  there,  nay,  probably 
Browning  had  another  church  in  his  eye.)  The 
priest  in  the  middle  of  his  sermon,  yawned,  and 
said,  "Basta!"  Then,  for  the  first  time  during  this 
visit,  for  the  first  time  since  twenty  years,  I  felt 
the  unmistakable  thrill  of  recognition,  and  said, 
"This  is  Rome." 

Or  there  is  another  method.  That  is  the  con- 
templative historic  description  of  something  you 
have  never  seen  (the  Belloc  method).  You  don't 
pretend  to  have  seen  it;  but  you  describe  what 
you  might  have  felt,  had  you  seen  it.  It  is  some- 
thing like  this:  — 

I  have  never  been  to  Aries.  But  yesterday  as  I 
was  walking  along  the  Roman  Road  between  Chanc- 
tonbury  and  Horsham,  I  thought  of  Aries.  Aries 
is  perpetually  seeking  new  things  in  Europe.  Aries 
has  the  spirit,  the  judgment,  and  the  greatness  of 
the  thirteenth  century.  Chicago  differs  utterly  in 
mood  from  Aries.  In  Chicago  there  is  war.  You 


96  Round   the  World  in 

buy  a  newspaper  and  ten  to  one  the  leading  article 
will  be  an  affirmation  or  a  denial  of  a  creed  or  a 
dogma.  In  Aries  you  may  buy  newspapers  for  a 
month  and  get  nothing  but  the  record  of  the  weath- 
er, two  days  old.  And,  as  I  consider  the  two  towns, 
neither  of  which  I  have  visited,  I  find  almost  as 
great  a  pleasure  in  imagining  them  as  in  remem- 
bering the  sharp  pictures  of  Birmingham  and  Swin- 
don.  I  have  been  to  Swindon ;  and  that  reminds  me, 
Swindon  has  a  song  of  its  own.  It  is  called  "  If  the 
Swin  was  in  the  Swim."  I  have  great  hopes  of  the 
town  of  Swindon. 

The  world  has  become  introspective  and  sub- 
jective. People  no  longer  write  about  what  they 
heard  or  saw.  They  assume  that  the  reader  knows 
all  that.  But  they  describe  what  they  felt  and 
thought  on  Monday,  or  on  Tuesday,  or  on  any 
other  day  of  the  week.  Anatole  France  started 
the  game  by  saying  that  criticism  was  the  ad- 
ventures of  the  soul  among  masterpieces. 

This  method  came  as  a  boon  to  reviewers  and 
critics:  they  no  longer  had  to  pretend  to  read 
the  books  they  reviewed.  To  dramatic  critics, 


Any   Number  of  Days  97 

especially,  the  system  was  invaluable;  but  they 
have  now  carried  it  further  still.  The  "literary" 
critic  who  wrote  an  account  of  a  play  instead  of 
telling  you  what  the  play  was  about  and  the 
effect  it  had  on  the  audience,  gave  you  his  "im- 
pressions" of  the  play.  But  now  he  just  gives 
you  his  impressions:  not  his  impressions  of  the 
play,  but  his  impressions  of  anything:  the  Wo- 
man's Suffrage  Movement  —  the  Rocky  Moun- 
tains. He  need  scarcely  mention  the  play;  but 
it  is  generally  done.  These  impressions  he  will 
write  in  the  obscure  dialect  of  modern  Oxford, 
which  consists  of  a  complicated  kind  of  literary 
slang.  He  writes  so  carefully  that  it  is  impossible 
to  know  exactly  what  he  means.  He  will  begin 
by  describing  a  journey  he  has  just  made;  he 
will  continue  to  give  you  his  views  on  Henry 
James,  or  the  principles  of  art,  then  he  will  sud- 
denly find  after  two  columns  of  disquisition  that 
he  has  come  to  the  end  of  his  space,  and  he  will 
put  off  dealing  with  the  play  to  the  following 


98  Round   the  World   in 

week.  By  that  time  he  will  have  forgotten  what 
he  meant  to  be  going  to  say,  and  he  will  be  ob- 
liged to  write  a  new  disquisition  on  something 
else.  That  is  how  the  "literary  critic "  deals  with 
the  drama  to-day.  I  find  no  fault  with  the  sys- 
tem. 

This  is  how  the  "literary"  critic  would  deal 
with  "Hamlet"  were  "Hamlet"  a  new  play:  — 

A  Non- Conductor 

Last  week  I  had  a  good  deal  to  say  about  the 
possible  effect  of  woman's  suffrage  on  art,  and  this 
led  me  to  disagree,  as  the  French  say,  on  the  atti- 
tude of  Aristophanes  towards  the  woman  question. 
The  fault  I  have  to  find  with  Mr.  Shakespeare's 
play  which  was  produced  tentatively  at  the  Reper- 
tory Theatre  in  Wolverhampton  last  Tuesday,  will 
be  plainer  when  I  have  first  explained  the  reason 
why  Walt  Whitman  never  wrote  a  play. 

Walt  Whitman  had  probably  the  greatest  unex- 
pressed dramatic  gift  of  the  century.  He  was  the 
most  potentially  dramatic  of  all  the  modern  poets: 
although  his  centrifugality  led  him  out,  so  to  speak, 
of  his  perspective,  and  shifted  his  dioramic  outlook 


Any   Number  of  Days  99 

from  the  psychologic-human  to  the  devisualized- 
ideal.  Yes,  Whitman  was  perhaps  the  greatest 
dramatist  who  never  wrote  a  play:  with  the  pos- 
sible exception  of  Browning,  who  wrote  plays  which 
were  in  reality  unbegun  novels.  Unlike  Swinburne, 
whose  system  consisted  of  finishing  his  play  before 
it  began  and  filling  up  the  space  with  deciduous 
phrases.  Swinburne  and  Browning  are  the  two 
great  negative  poles  of  drama:  Whitman  is  the  in- 
verted mute  magnet,  who  repelled  drama  from  him 
instead  of  attracting  it.  I  will  explain,  and  in  order 
to  explain,  we  must  go  back  to  the  Indian  drama; 
etc.,  etc.,  etc.,  etc.,  etc. 

Here,  on  the  other  hand,  in  contrast  to  this, 
is  an  example  of  the  older  impressionist  method ; 
a  short  notice  written  in  a  cheap  newspaper,  by 
a  critic  who  has  not  had  time  to  see  the  last  act, 
and  to  whom  the  manager  has  refused  to  give  a 
sketch  of  the  plot :  — 

Hamlet:  Puzzle-Play  at  the  Pantheon 

Mr.  Shakespeare  is  presumably  a  new  writer.  I 
don't  remember  having  seen  any  of  his  work  before, 
although  it  was  rumoured  last  night  that  he  had  once 


ioo  Round   the  World  in 

been  guilty  of  some  sonnets.  He  may  be  able  to 
write  sonnets;  but  writing  sonnets  is  one  thing  and 
writing  a  play  is  another.  Not  that  there  is  no 
cleverness  and  no  promise  in  "Hamlet";  but  it  is 
a  literary  cleverness,  and  not  a  dramatic  cleverness. 

The  play  suffers  from  dullness,  length,  and  want 
of  action.  There  is  far  too  much  talk  from  begin- 
ning to  end.  And  the  talk  is  not  dramatic.  Mr. 
Shakespeare  has  made  the  unpardonable  mistake 
of  not  making  his  intention  clear. 

Is  Hamlet,  the  hero  of  this  rather  disagreeable 
family  imbroglio,  meant  to  be  mad,  or  is  he  meant 
to  be  simulating  madness?  Is  the  ghost  a  real  ghost? 
Are  we  to  take  it  seriously,  or  is  it  merely  the  prac- 
tical mystification  of  a  royal  buffoon? 

And  what  are  we  to  think  of  the  heroine?  Is  she 
really  mad  also?  Or  is  her  madness  a  literary  device 
contrived  so  as  to  afford  Mr.  Shakespeare  oppor- 
tunities for  "lyricism"  and  incidental  music? 
Either  Mr.  Shakespeare  meant  to  write  a  serious 
tragedy  on  the  subject  of  madness,  or  he  meant  to 
parody  the  prevalent  mania  for  so-called  psycho- 
logical studies:  but  the  audience,  being  at  a  loss  to 
know  what  he  meant,  was  merely  puzzled  and  bored. 
The  actors  did  their  best  with  their  thankless  task, 
and  Mrs.  Siddons,  who  celebrated  her  diamond 


Any   Number  of  Days          101 

jubilee  last  Thursday,  looked  younger  than  ever  in 
the  somewhat  ungrateful  part  of  the  peevish  and 
provoking  heroine. 

The  upshot  of  all  this  digression  is  that  I  wish 
to  excuse  myself  for  having  written  at  random 
by  the  exposition  of  current  models  and  prece- 
dents. 

After  a  four  days'  voyage  from  Sydney,  I  have 
arrived  at  the  other  end  of  the  world:  Antipodes. 


Wellington:  August  10 

IT  is  the  end  of  winter  here,  the  beginning  of 
spring;  and  colder,  of  course,  than  it  is  in  Aus- 
tralia. The  Wellington  wind  which  you  hear  so 
much  of  you  feel  and  hear  a  great  deal  as  soon 
as  you  get  up  on  to  the  hills.  In  the  town  I  think 
you  feel  it  less  than  one  is  told. 

Before  sailing  from  London,  five  people  told 
me  that  you  can  always  tell  a  Wellington  man 
because  he  holds  on  his  hat  when  he  walks  round 
a  corner  of  a  street,  because  the  wind  blows 
round  the  corners.  Everybody  in  the  ship  coming 
out,  to  whom  I  mentioned  New  Zealand,  told 
me  the  story  again,  until  at  last  I  thought  of 
having  a  small  placard  hanging  round  my  neck 
with  "I  know  how  to  tell  a  Wellington  man" 
written  on  it,  or  "Don't  tell  me  the  story  of  the 
Wellington  man  and  wind;  I  know  it." 

The  first  thing  that  strikes  an  Englishman  about 
the  landscape  of  New  Zealand  is  the  absence  of 


A   WELLINGTON    MAN    TURNING   A    STREET   CORNER 


Round   the   World  103 

atmosphere.  The  jagged  hills  stand. out  sharp 
against  the  clear  sky  like  a  photograph  seen  through 
a  stereoscope.  There  are  no  half-lights,  no  melt- 
ing mist  or  wreathing  haze,  no  vague  distances. 

Another  thing  which  strikes  the  stranger  is 
the  volcanic  appearance  of  the  hills  and  the  soil. 
New  Zealand  is  a  tropical  island  cooled  and  made 
temperate  by  the  neighbourhood  of  the  South 
Pole.  Wellington  nestles  among  steep  hills  cov- 
ered with  light-green  grass  and  shorn  of  all  trees. 
Its  roofs  are  nearly  all  red.  If  you  climb  up  a 
hill  you  see  the  view  on  either  side  of  it,  and  the 
sea,  very  deep  and  blue. 

Not  so  very  many  years  ago  New  Zealand  was 
covered  with  bush;  and  the  vegetation  must 
have  been  riotously  splendid,  for  what  remains 
is  very  fine. 

My  first  walk  in  the  country  along  the  beach, 
where  a  very  blue  sea  breaks  over  sharp  brown 
rocks,  and  high  cliffs  stand  out  sharp  and  sheer, 
reminded  me  of  South  Devon. 


Round   the   World  in 


My  first  long  drive  in  the  country  reminded 
me  of  Russia,  that  is  to  say,  of  eastern  Siberia 
and  Transbaikalia.  The  little  wooden  one- 
storied  houses,  with  red  iron  roofs  and  verandahs, 
might  have  been  taken  from  Siberia.  The  sharp 
outline  of  the  hills,  the  colour  of  the  scrub,  the 
clearness  of  the  sky,  all  this  is  very  much  like 
what  you  see  from  the  windows  of  the  Trans- 
Siberian  Railway. 

Another  thing  the  stranger  will  notice  immedi- 
ately is  the  limpidity  of  the  streams  and  the  water. 

Everybody  tells  me  that  this  is  the  wrong  time 
of  year  to  be  in  New  Zealand.  One  should  be 
here  in  the  summer:  that  is  to  say,  in  November 
and  December.  One  should  be  able  to  camp  out 
in  the  bush,  by  the  great  lakes,  where  the  black 
swans  sweep  and  wheel  in  the  transparent  after- 
glow. 

I  shan't  see  all  that,  alas!  because  it  is  prac- 
tically winter  now.  I  shall  miss  probably  all  the 
important  sights. 


Any   Number  of  Days  105 

In  Wellington  you  see  a  great  many  private 
automobiles;  very  few  public  cabs  and  taxis. 
Most  people  use  the  tram-cars,  which  is  much 
the  most  convenient  way  of  getting  about,  let 
alone  the'  cheapness. 

The  first  thing  that  strikes  you  in  Wellington 
is  the  well-to-do-ness  of  everybody.  There  are  no 
beggars;  the  workmen  are  all  well  off.  The  people 
seem  quite  extraordinarily  happy. 


Near  Palmerston :  August  20 

I  HAVE  spent  four  days  in  the  country  near 
Palmerston.  As  you  travel  in  the  train  the  coun- 
try is  more  like  eastern  Siberia  than  ever.  In 
the  distance  you  see  a  sharp  range  of  blue  hills, 
in  the  foreground  a  flat  plain  on  which  little 
squat  one-storied  wooden  houses  with  red  iron 
roofs  are  dotted  about. 

The  small  provincial  cities,  too,  are  —  as  in 
Australia  —  very  like  the  provincial  towns  in 
Russia.  The  streets  are  broad  and  the  houses 
have  verandahs. 

Another  point  of  resemblance:  the  way  the 
people  ride.  You  meet  children  riding  back  from 
school,  two  on  a  pony.  They  seem  to  belong 
to  the  pony.  They  ride  like  little  centaurs.  This 
reminds  me  of  the  evenings  in  the  plains  of  the 
Russian  country,  where  one  used  to  see  the  chil- 
dren of  the  village  galloping  off  bareback  on 
large  horses  and  driving  a  lot  of  riderless  horses 
to  the  river,  to  water  them. 


Round   the  World  107 

As  you  drive  in  the  country  in  New  Zealand, 
the  first  thing  you  notice  is  the  tall  gum-trees, 
and  whenever  you  get  near  the  bush  you  hear 
the  song  of  strange,  unfamiliar  birds.  No  native- 
born  New  Zealand  bird  has  wings. 

The  New  Zealanders  are  born  footballers. 
You  see  the  children  playing  everywhere.  On 
every  Saturday  afternoon  there  is  a  big  football 
match,  and  crowds  of  people  look  on.  Rugby 
football  is  the  national  game  of  New  Zealand, 
and  I  suppose  the  New  Zealanders  are  the  best 
players  in  the  world. 

At  the  Athletic  Park  Ground  you  often  see 
two  matches  going  on  at  once.  It  is  extremely 
difficult  to  watch  two  matches  at  once;  because 
the  moment  you  begin  to  watch  something  in  the 
one,  something  interesting  is  sure  to  happen  in 
the  other.  One  would  think,  speaking  as  an 
outsider,  that  the  Rugby  game  is  far  more  inter- 
esting to  look  on  at  than  the  Association  game. 


io8  Round   the  World  in 

But  the  Londoner  does  not  think  so.  Every 
Saturday  in  London,  and,  indeed,  all  over  Eng- 
land, thousands  of  people  look  on  at  the  As- 
sociation game,  and  they  care  very  much  less 
for  Rugby,  which  they  consider  to  be  a  "toff's 
game."  There  is,  they  say,  "too  much  shirt- 
tearing"  about  it  for  their  taste. 

Rugby  football  in  New  Zealand  has  not  yet 
been  spoiled  by  professionalism.  People  think 
it  is  an  honour  to  play  for  a  team,  and  they  are 
willing  to  travel  and  play  all  over  the  country 
for  the  honour  of  it,  and  without  remuneration. 

In  England  professionalism  has  spoiled  not 
only  football  but  almost  every  other  game, 
with  the  possible  exception  of  "Old  Maid," 
cribbage,  and  "My  Bird  Sings." 

The  result  is :  — 

(1)  People  prefer  looking  on  at  games  to  play- 
ing them  themselves. 

(2)  They  demand  professionals  and  they  bet 
on  them. 


Any   Number  of  Days          109 

(3)  Some  games  become  so  professionally 
perfect  that  people  no  longer  care  to  look 
on  at  them. 

The  passion  of  the  crowd  in  England  for  watch- 
ing football  is  looked  upon  by  many  people  as 
the  most  ominous  sign  of  national  decadence, 
and  as  a  manifestation  resembling  that  of  the 
gladiatorial  shows  in  ancient  Rome.  They  say 
it  is  this  passion  for  watching,  and  for  betting 
in  the  watching,  that  is  responsible  for  the  pre- 
valence of  professionalism.  In  England  one 
local  club  buys  a  celebrated  player  from  an- 
other local  club.  Therefore,  it  is  obvious  that 
this  is  the  death  of  any  real  local  spirit, 

As  for  the  games  becoming  so  professional 
that  people  lose  interest  in  them,  this  does  not 
apply  to  football:  but  it  does  apply  to  cricket. 
In  the  last  years  there  is  in  England  a  great 
falling-off  in  the  public  interest  in  cricket.  The 
play  has  become  so  perfect  that  nobody  cares 
to  look  at  it. 


no  Round   the   World 

And  even,  or  rather  especially,  at  the  schools 
in  England,  games  have  become  ultra-profes- 
sional. 

All  this  is  a  pity,  but  it  does  not  apply  to  New 
Zealand.  New  Zealand  has,  up  to  now,  been 
unspoiled  by  professionalism.  Long  may  it  re- 
main so.  One  football  enthusiast  told  me  that 
the  cloven  hoof  was  making  its  appearance. 

What  most  people  want  to  hear  about  New 
Zealand  are  facts  with  regard  to  the  economic 
situation  of  the  country:  the  labour  question,  the 
effects  of  woman's  suffrage,  the  drink  question, 
prohibition,  etc.  Now,  unless  one  makes  a  really 
thorough  and  serious  study  of  these  questions, 
which  it  is  impossible  to  do  without  devoting 
considerable  time  to  it,  without,  in  fact,  living 
in  the  country  for  a  reasonable  period,  it  is  worse 
than  useless  to  fire  off  a  few  superficial  and  dog- 
matic generalizations.  It  is  for  this  reason  that 
I  forbear  from  discussing  them  here. 


Wellington :  September 

THE  first  manifestations  of  the  spring  have 
taken  the  form  of  rain  and  wind.  Whenever  the 
wind  is  in  the  south,  the  weather  is  cold:  for  the 
wind  comes  straight  from  the  South  Pole.  But 
luckily  the  rain  does  not  last  long.  Changes 
of  weather  in  New  Zealand  are  very  sudden. 
The  hills  are  now  covered  with  gorse  in  bloom. 
Daffodils  are  out  everywhere;  and  in  the  town 
you  see  arum  lilies  that  grow  wild  in  New  Zea- 
land in  great  profusion;  but  I  imagine  their  time 
is  later. 

I  am  leaving  the  country  just  as  the  pleasant 
season  is  beginning,  and  I  am  leaving  before  I 
have  had  time  to  see  the  most  interesting  places 
in  it.  I  have  not  seen  New  Zealand;  but  I  have 
seen  Wellington,  and  I  have  had  a  glimpse  of 
the  country.  I  have  seen  the  Parliament  sitting. 
I  have  met  many  interesting  people.  I  have  been 
to  two  concerts,  one  picture-show,  one  hospital, 


ii2  Round  the  World  in 

one  theatre,  and  four  football  matches.  I  have 
not  been  to  one  thing:  and  that  is  morning  tea. 

Morning  tea  is,  I  believe,  a  custom  peculiar 
to  New  Zealand.  The  New  Zealanders  give  teas 
at  eleven  o'clock  in  the  morning. 

Eleven  o'clock  in  the  morning  is  the  time  when 
one  feels  most  exhausted.  Refreshment  of  some 
kind  at  ii  A.M.  is  surely  a  need  of  human  nature; 
and  the  New  Zealanders  have  done  well  to  crys- 
tallize the  need  into  a  tradition  and  a  habit. 

Tea  and  whisky  seem  to  be  the  national 
drinks  of  New  Zealand  —  especially  whisky. 
But  tea  is  often  drunk  at  meals. 

The  impression  that  prevails  in  England  that 
New  Zealand  is  a  place  where  you  can't  get  any- 
thing to  drink,  is  a  false  one.  Of  course,  some  of 
the  cities  in  the  country  are  under  the  ban  of 
prohibition,  and  so  are  certain  portions  of  Wel- 
lington itself:  from  these  you  have  to  cross  the 
street  into  such  territory  as  lies  outside  the  ban. 
The  railway  cars  are  teetotal. 


Any  Number  of  Days  113 

The  people  here  often  tell  you  that  they  are 
being  over-legislated.  And  one  notable  New 
Zealander  told  me  that  what  the  country  most 
needed  was  improvement  in  higher  education. 
The  people,  he  said,  did  not  care  for  higher  edu- 
cation. Their  point  of  view  was  material.  They 
would  n't  do  things  unless  there  was  something 
to  show  for  it. 

In  Wellington  there  are  four  large,  long  streets 
full  of  shops,  tall  stone  buildings,  English  in 
character,  hotels,  banks,  etc.,  with  verandahs 
covering  the  pavement  the  whole  way,  and  cars 
running  through  them.  Outside  of  these  streets, 
the  houses  are  mostly  built  of  wood,  and  re- 
semble, as  I  have  already  said,  those  of  a  Rus- 
sian provincial  town. 

The  prices  strike  an  Englishman  as  high,  and 
the  cost  of  living  in  New  Zealand  is  undoubtedly 
high.  The  wages  are,  from  our  point  of  view, 
enormously  high.  A  good  chauffeur  (I  know  of  a 
case  in  point)  can  get  £4  a  week,  and  a  house. 


ii4  Round   the  World  in 

From  the  English  point  of  view  such  wages  are 
very  high  indeed. 

The  New  Zealanders  strike  me  as  being  much 
more  like  English  people  than  the  Australians. 
Of  course  they  have  characteristics  of  their  own. 
One  thing  is  certain  —  a  more  friendly,  hos- 
pitable people  does  not  exist. 

To  go  into  the  matter  of  their  institutions, 
life,  etc.,  would  need  a  far  more  prolonged  study 
and  stay  than  I  have  been  able  to  make,  and  I 
have  already  said,  three  or  four  times,  that  I 
don't  believe  in  pronouncing  judgments  on  a 
country  before  you  know  it  thoroughly. 

One  of  the  most  interesting  people  I  have  met 
here  is  a  French  lady  of  the  highest  culture  and 
education,  Soeur  Marie  Joseph,  who  is  at  the 
head  of  a  Home  of  Compassion  for  derelict  chil- 
dren. She  went  out  to  the  Crimean  War  under 
Florence  Nightingale  and  looked  after  the 
wounded  on  the  battlefields  that  knew  nothing 
of  anaesthetics.  She  told  me  that  sometimes  the 


Any   Number   of  Days  115 

doctors,  after  a  day  of  surgical  operations,  would 
be  drunk  with  the  fumes  of  the  blood.  The 
wounded  had  to  be  tied  down  to  be  operated 
on,  and  sometimes,  where  this  was  not  practi- 
cable, people  had  to  sit  on  them  to  hold  them 
down. 

Sceur  Marie  Joseph  is  very  fond  of  New  Zea- 
land. She  came  out,  attracted  by  what  she  heard 
of  the  Maoris,  and  she  knows  the  Maoris  with  an 
intimate  thoroughness.  She  has  a  great  admira- 
tion for  them;  and  she  gave  me  many  instances 
of  their  chivalry  and  nobility  of  character.  She 
has  seen  great  changes  since  she  has  been  in  New 
Zealand.  When  she  first  came,  she  told  me,  New 
Zealand  was  covered  with  bush  —  that  is  to  say, 
with  magnificent  forests;  and  the  population, 
then,  she  says,  was  like  one  large  family. 

This  morning  at  one  of  the  Catholic  churches 
here  the  priest  preached  a  most  interesting  ser- 
mon. Among  other  things  he  told  the  following 


n6  Round   the   World 

story.  He  said,  "The  other  day  I  met  a  man 
who  said,  'I  am  a  better  Catholic  than  you  are; 
because  I  go  to  all  the  churches:  the  Catholic, 
the  Anglican,  the  Presbyterian,  etc.'  '  On  the 
following  Sunday  the  priest  passed  this  same  man 
as  he  was  working  in  his  garden,  and  he  said  to 
him,  "You  may  go  to  all  the  churches,  but  you 
don't  obey  the  precepts  of  any  of  them;  for  they 
all  tell  you  not  to  work  on  Sunday."  The  man 
laughed. 

A  few  days  after  the  priest  met  the  man  again 
in  the  town,  and  the  man  said  to  him:  "I  have 
just  had  the  narrowest  escape.  I  fell  off  a  car 
and  my  legs  were  underneath  it,  and  I  was  with- 
in an  ace  of  being  run  over,  when  mercifully  it 
stopped  just  in  time." 

"Well,"  said  the  priest,  "I  think  that  was  due 
to  me,  because,  when  I  saw  you  working  last 
Sunday,  I  prayed  for  the  salvation  of  your 
legs." 


Roratonga  and  Tahiti:  September 

I  LEFT  Wellington  on  September  13  on  the 
steamship  Moana,  one  of  the  steamers  belong- 
ing to  the  Union  Steamship  Company. 

There  was  a  great  deal  of  excitement  at  the 
send-off,  because  the  Rugby  Union  Football 
Team  from  Australia  were  on  board.  They 
had  come  from  Sydney  and  were  on  their  way 
to  San  Francisco,  in  order  to  play  against  the 
local  teams  there.  These  football  boys  had  ar- 
rived the  day  before,  and  had  had  a  respite  of 
twenty-four  hours  from  the  inclemency  of  the 
sea,  which  they  had  greatly  enjoyed  (the  respite, 
I  mean,  not  the  sea).  Some  of  them  had  never 
been  away  from  Australia  before.  Several  of 
them,  or,  indeed,  nearly  all  of  them  with  the 
exception  of  about  seven,  were  indifferent  sailors. 
They  remained  on  shore  as  long  as  they  possibly 
could,  one  of  them  climbing  up  the  gangway  as 
it  was  actually  being  pulled  up.  The  ship  sailed 
amidst  cheering  and  singing. 


n8  Round   the  World  in 

The  southern  Pacific,  especially  that  part  of 
it  which  is  near  New  Zealand,  is  not  a  pleasant 
sea.  The  steamer  pitched,  and  altogether  the 
comfort  of  passengers  was  considerably  inter- 
fered with  during  the  first  two  days  of  the  voy- 
age. We  started  on  Friday,  and  owing  to  the 
change  of  time  we  had  two  Saturdays  running. 
(Let  mathematicians  explain  that  if  they  can.) 
It  was  not  until  the  Sunday  which  followed  the 
two  Saturdays  that  the  sea  began  to  be  smooth 
enough  to  allow  the  passengers  to  behave  like 
human  beings  instead  of  like  half-inanimate 
corpses. 

On  Sunday  most  of  the  football  boys  emerged 
from  their  cabins  and  began  training  on  the 
upper  deck.  They  boxed,  they  wrestled,  they 
ran,  they  played  leap-frog,  they  formed  scrim- 
mages; in  fact,  they  displayed  every  form  of 
energy  which  human  bones  and  muscles  are  cap- 
able of. 

The  weather  grew  warmer,  and  on  the  Tuesday 


Any   Number  of  Days  119 

we  got  to  the  southeast  trade  winds.  The  day 
after  this  the  steamer  called  at  the  island  of 
Roratonga.  Roratonga  is  an  island  which  con- 
sists of  sharp  and  jagged  little  hills  entirely  cov- 
ered with  a  riotous  green  vegetation. 

In  thinking  of  the  South  Sea  Islands,  and  of 
tropical  islands  in  general,  if  you  have  never 
seen  them,  one  may  not  realise  that  the  gen- 
eral appearance  of  them  must  necessarily  be 
green,  since  they  are  entirely  covered  with  vege- 
tation. One  imagines  a  few  palm-trees  sticking 
up  out  of  the  sea,  instead  of  a  range  of  moun- 
tains covered  with  trees.  As  you  first  catch  sight 
of  Roratonga,  you  realise  what  New  Zealand 
must  have  been  like  when  it  was  covered  with 
bush,  only,  of  course,  the  climate  of  Roratonga 
is  far  milder  and  far  warmer.  The  moment  the 
steamer  reaches  Roratonga  a  great  quantity  of 
natives  set  out  in  boats  from  the  shore  and  swarm 
on  board.  They  are  not  black;  they  are  not  cop- 
per-coloured; they  are  a  sort  of  dull  almond 


120  Round   the  World  in 

colour,  with  very  black  hair  and  very  dark  brown 
eyes.  They  wear  large  straw  hats;  some  of  them 
have  flowers  in  their  hair  and  behind  their  ears. 
As  soon  as  you  reach  the  shore  the  aspect 
of  the  island,  which  you  might  think  disap- 
pointing at  a  distance,  changes  entirely.  You 
are  caught  in  a  sort  of  warm  embrace  of  aromatic 
deliciousness.  Hibiscus  bushes,  with  great  scar- 
let blossoms,  surround  you  on  every  side;  cocoa 
palms,  and  all  vegetation  which  you  expect  to 
see  in  a  tropical  island,  are  there  before  your 
eyes.  But  you  will  say,  "  If  it  is  just  the  same  as 
any  other  tropical  island,  what  is  the  use  of  des- 
cribing it  —  if  it  is  merely  what  one  sees  in  the 
East?  You  have  already  spoken  of  Ceylon." 
Well,  Rora tonga  and  the  islands  of  the  South 
Seas  are  not  in  the  least  like  Ceylon,  and  they 
are  not  in  the  least  like  anything  in  the  Near  or 
Far  East.  They  have  a  peculiar  charm  which  is 
completely  individual,  and  totally  unlike  any- 
thing else.  The  sights  and  the  people  of  these 


NATIVES   SWARMING   ON   BOARD 


Any  Number   of  Days  121 

Southern  places  are  utterly  unlike  the  sights  and 
people  you  see  in  the  East — in  Ceylon,  for  in- 
stance. There  is  nothing  here  of  that  hard,  metal- 
lic element  which  you  get  in  the  East;  nothing 
of  that  inscrutable  mystery,  that  shadow  of 
cruelty,  which  you  feel  in  the  Orient.  The  peo- 
ple are  like  the  climate  —  soft  and  gentle;  and 
they  talk  in  musical  tones,  like  the  twittering  of 
birds ;  and  their  speech  is  careless  as  the  laughing 
talk  of  children.  They  reminded  me  of  that  race 
of  people  whom  H.  G.  Wells  describes  in  his  book 
uThe  Time  Machine,"  that  same  people  whom 
he  imagines  as  living  aboveground  in  the  far, 
far  distant  future,  when  the  industrial  population 
of  the  world  had  grown  into  a  sort  of  human 
flesh-eating  lemur,  which  could  only  live  under- 
ground and  could  only  see  in  the  dark.  Mr.  Wells 
represents  the  other  and  the  civilized  half  of  the 
population  as  having  progressed  or  degenerated, 
whichever  you  like,  into  a  race  of  childlike,  ami- 
able, and  playful  little  people,  who  live  on  fruit 


122  Round   the   World  in 

in  tumble-down  houses,  and  who  are  as  careless 
and  irresponsible  as  butterflies.  The  people  of 
Roratonga  reminded  me  of  this  fancy  of  Mr. 
Wells's. 

At  a  little  hotel  where  I  stopped  to  eat  some 
fresh  bananas  (and,  oh,  the  difference  between 
the  fresh  bananas  and  those  which  one  buys  at 
a  store  in  Europe!)  the  woman  who  kept  the 
hotel,  and  who  had  come  from  South  Africa, 
talked  of  the  natives.  She  said:  "  It  is  impossible 
to  get  them  to  work.  If  you  find  any  fault  with 
them  they  go  away.  It  is  we  poor  white  people 
who  have  to  do  all  the  work.  I  would  like,"  she 
said,  "to  shambok  them  as  they  do  in  South 
Africa,  so  lazy  and  impossible  they  are  some- 
times, but  we  are  not  allowed  to  touch  them. 
But  then/'  she  added,  "of  course  one  can't 
blame  them,  because  they  are  quite  well  off  with- 
out working.  They  have  got  enough  to  live  on 
without  doing  any  work."  I  thought  that  it 
would,  indeed,  be  unreasonable  to  blame  these 


Any   Number   ofDays  123 

natives  for  not  slaving  for  white  people  if  they 
were  not  obliged  to  do  so.  The  fact  is  that  in  these 
islands  work  for  the  natives  is  not  a  necessity; 
it  is  a  hobby.  It  is  to  them  what  gardening  must 
have  been  to  Adam  and  Eve  in  the  Garden  of 
Eden,  in  the  days  before  the  Fall.  If  Adam  and 
Eve  gardened  then,  they  gardened  for  fun.  After 
the  Fall  of  Man,  they  had  to  garden  for  a  living 
and  not  from  choice.  Well,  the  native  inhabitants 
of  the  South  Sea  Islands  seem  to  have  escaped 
or  to  be  exempted  from  the  primal  curse;  in 
fact,  I  believe  that  the  islands  of  Tahiti  and  Rora- 
tonga  are  two  bits  of  the  Garden  of  Eden  which 
were  allowed  to  remain  in  the  world  so  as  to  show 
mankind  what  they  had  lost  by  Eve's  curiosity, 
Adam's  disobedience,  and  the  Devil's  spite. 

We  walked  along  the  coast  of  this  island  up 
to  the  house  of  the  missionary,  where  there  was 
a  large  field.  The  football  boys  wanted  to  prac- 
tise. We  certainly  envied  the  missionary  his 
house.  It  stood  under  a  huge  shelving  hill  cov- 


124  Round  the  World  in 

ered  with  palm-trees,  in  a  perfect  labyrinth  of 
flowers.  When  the  boys  began  to  play  football, 
the  natives  came  in  great  crowds  and  stood  round 
chirping  with  delight  like  birds;  and  when  the 
boys  had  finished  practising,  they  threw  the 
football  to  the  natives  and  told  them  they  might 
play.  At  first,  the  natives  fought  shy  of  the 
football,  —  I  imagine  that  they  thought  they 
would  have  to  play  against  these  terrifically 
efficient  and  muscular  representatives  of  New 
South  Wales;  but  when  they  realised  that  the 
boys  did  not  want  to  play  with  them,  and  that 
they  could  play  among  themselves,  they  took 
to  the  game  with  great  eagerness,  and  were  soon 
enjoying  themselves  greatly.  It  was  curious 
that  by  just  looking  on  they  had  picked  up  a 
very  good  idea  of  the  game,  the  main  features 
of  which  they  mimicked  with  some  skill;  one 
little  boy  was  an  excellent  tackier. 

One  was  struck  by  the  extraordinarily  musi- 
cal quality  of  their  voices  and  their  language, 


Any   Number  of  Days  125 

which  consists  almost  entirely  of  soft  open 
vowels,  and  which  is,  I  suppose,  the  most  melo- 
dious of  all  human  languages. 

Before  going  back  to  the  steamer,  which  was 
to  sail  in  a  few  hours,  I  bathed  in  the  sea,  in  a 
warm  azure  sea,  and  then,  after  eating  more 
bananas  and  a  delicious  bitter  fruit  called  "Bra- 
zilian cherries/*  I  went  on  board  once  more. 

From  Roratonga  it  only  takes  two  days  to  get 
to  the  island  of  Tahiti,  and  the  steamer  anchored 
at  Papeete  on  Friday,  the  2Oth  September. 

Roratonga  gives  you  a  kind  of  foretaste  of  the 
whole  charm  and  beauty  of  the  South  Seas.  It 
is  the  appetizer,  the  hors-d'ceuvre,  not  the  whole 
meal.  Tahiti  is  the  whole  thing;  the  real  thing; 
the  thing  one  has  dreamt  about  all  one's  life;  the 
thing  which  made  Stevenson  leave  Europe  for- 
ever. All  tellers  of  fairy  tales,  and  all  poets  from 
Homer  downwards,  have  always  imagined  the 
existence  of  certain  islands  which  were  so  full 
of  magic  and  charm  that  they  turned  man  from 


126  Round   the  World  in 

his  duty  and  from  all  tasks,  labour,  or  occupation 
in  which  he  was  engaged,  and  held  him  a  willing 
captive,  who  would  not  sell  his  captivity  for  all 
the  prizes  of  the  busy  world. 

Stevenson  in  one  of  his  books  —  "The 
Wrecker,"  I  think  —  says  that  if  a  man  who  was 
toiling  in  some  English  town  were  to  be  suddenly 
transported  to  one  of  the  South  Sea  Islands,  in 
the  neighbourhood  of  Tahiti,  and  had  a  vision 
of  the  beauty  that  is  there,  and  then  were  to  be 
transported  back  again  to  his  prosaic  and  ugly 
surroundings,  he  would  say,  "At  any  rate,  I 
have  had  my  dream. "  That  is  how  one  feels 
when  one  has  seen  Tahiti.  One  feels  one  has  had 
one's  dream. 

The  Bay  of  Papeete  curves  inward.  As  you 
sail  into  it  you  are  sure  to  see  several  white 
schooners  at  anchor.  At  one  side  is  a  range  of 
light-blue  volcanic  hills  stretching  out  into  the 
crystalline  sea,  reminding  one  of  Naples,  Capri, 
and  Sorrento,  and  in  the  middle  of  the  bay  there 


Any   Number  of  Days  127 

is  a  tiny  little  island,  consisting  of  a  few  cocoa 
palms.  The  sea  is  a  transparent  azure;  little 
white  houses  are  dotted  all  along  the  line  of  the 
beach,  nestling  in  greenery.  We  got  there  in  the 
afternoon  and  landed  at  once.  We  walked  along 
the  beach  into  the  little  town,  and  into  the  sub- 
urbs of  it.  It  was  spring  in  Tahiti,  and  every 
kind  of  imaginable  blossom  was  flaunting  its 
reckless  and  extravagant  beauty.  Everything 
grows  wild  in  Tahiti.  Nobody  seems  to  bother 
about  gardening  or  anything  of  that  kind.  It 
is  not  only  the  lilies  who  do  not  toil  and  spin, 
but  the  gardeners  also.  The  unaided  results  of 
nature  are  so  prodigious  that  the  imagination 
is  staggered  to  think  of  what  might  be  done 
supposing  an  energetic  gardener  were  let  loose 
in  these  islands  and  allowed  to  try  experiments. 
He  would  produce  such  a  garden  as  the  world 
has  never  seen. 

I  scarcely  knew  the  names  of  any  of  the  fruits 
or  any  of  the  blossoms  which  I  saw.  There  were 


128  Round   the   World  in 

mango-trees,  laden  with  mangoes  which  were 
not  yet  ripe;  bamboo  -  trees,  breadfruit  -  trees, 
cocoa  palms,  banana-trees,  hibiscus  bushes,  a  tree 
with  a  bright  pink  blossom  which  looked  like 
a  Judas-tree,  but  which  was  not  one,  bushes  with 
intense  mauve-  and  deep  lilac-coloured  flowers, 
and  broad  avenues  of  large  green  trees  which 
shaded  the  road  from  the  hot  sun  with  great 
fanlike  branches.  As  we  walked  along  this  ave- 
nue, on  both  sides  of  which  there  are  little  houses, 
we  caught  glimpses  of  wonderfully  luxuriant  and 
untrained  gardens. 

There  seemed  to  be  no  birds  except  blackbirds 
and  mina  birds,  which  were  hopping  about  in 
great  quantities. 

The  people  seem  extraordinarily  contented 
and  invincibly  indolent.  I  was  walking  along 
the  main  street  and  I  wanted  to  get  to  the  post- 
office,  which  I  knew  was  somewhere  along  that 
street.  I  stopped  at  a  store  and  asked  whether 
I  was  going  the  right  way.  The  storekeeper  — 


Any   Number  of  Days  129 

who  was  a  Frenchman  —  said,  yes,  I  was 
going  right.  I  then  asked  if  it  was  far.  The 
storekeeper  said,  oh,  yes,  it  was  very  far;  in- 
deed, it  would  take  me  a  good  quarter  of  an  hour 
or  twenty  minutes  to  walk  there.  I  asked  him 
if  I  could  hire  a  conveyance,  as  I  was  in  a  hurry. 
He  shook  his  head  and  thought  it  unlikely.  I 
then  went  on  my  way.  I  thought  I  would  just 
time  myself  and  see  how  long  it  did  take  to  reach 
the  post-office.  I  walked  fast;  but  I  found,  to 
my  amazement,  that  it  took  me  exactly  three 
minutes  to  get  there.  Doubtless  it  would  have 
taken  a  native  of  Tahiti  twenty  minutes.  There 
is  no  such  thing  as  hurry  and  no  such  thing  as 
energy  in  these  islands. 

At  five  o'clock  in  the  evening  the  football  boys 
gave  a  display  in  front  of  the  Governor's  house, 
and  crowds  of  natives  witnessed  it.  After  that 
we  all  went  to  bathe  in  the  bay,  where  sharks 
rarely  come,  although  they  do  come  sometimes. 

In  the  evening  we  went  to  a  picture-show, 


130  Round   the  World  in 

where  there  was  a  boxing-match  between  some 
native  champions. 

The  people  say  that  if  you  once  drink  of  the 
water  of  Tahiti  you  will  be  bound  to  go  there 
again,  and  I  do  not  wonder  at  this.  It  is  cer- 
tainly the  most  fascinating  and  most  beautiful 
spot  I  have  ever  seen.  Its  fascination  lies  not 
so  much  in  the  profusion  and  wealth  of  luxuri- 
ant vegetation  and  exotic  colouring  as  in  its 
subtle  and  indescribable  charm.  You  do  not 
feel  as  if  you  were  in  a  hothouse.  You  feel  as  if 
you  were  in  a  most  delicious  country.  You  walk 
along  by  the  side  of  streams  where  you  see  peo- 
ple doing  their  washing;  you  hear  the  cry  of 
poultry;  you  see  people  driving  oxen  along  the 
shady  road.  There  is  a  wonderful  fragrance  in 
the  air.  Schooners  come  into  the  harbour  from  the 
other  islands:  the  Marquesas  Islands,  etc.  The 
Europeans  walking  about  in  their  white  clothes 
do  not  look  like  the  Europeans  you  see  in  Ceylon, 
all  washed  out  and  weaned  from  the  heat  and 


Any   Number  of  Days  131 

strain;  they  look  as  if  they  were  enjoying  life, 
as  if  they  were  happy  where  they  were. 

There  is  a  large  Chinese  population  in  Tahiti, 
but  they  busy  themselves  for  the  most  part  with 
agriculture.  They  do  not  do  much  work  for  the 
white  people.  The  labour  problem  in  Tahiti  is 
consequently  very  vexatious  for  the  white  peo- 
ple. It  is  difficult  to  get  work  done  at  all ;  there- 
fore, life  in  Tahiti  is  expensive.  Often,  for 
instance,  the  natives  on  market-day  will  bring 
no  meat  to  the  market,  because  it  bothers  them 
to  do  so.  Of  course,  if  white  people  consented  to 
live  entirely  on  fruit,  as  the  natives  do,  the  ques- 
tion would  be  solved,  and  certainly  the  fruit 
there  is  excellent.  But  man  cannot  live  by  bread- 
fruit alone.  He  insists  on  sucking-pig  and  other 
more  substantial  delicacies;  and  to  get  these,  in 
Tahiti,  he  has  to  pay  money. 

There  is  practically  only  one  small  hotel  in 
Tahiti,  a  little  two-storied  house  with  a  verandah. 
There  are  many  French  stores;  the  Governor's 


132  Round   the  World  in 

House;  the  post-office;  and  a  theatre.  When  the 
Panama  Canal  is  opened,  steamers,  I  suppose, 
will  call  at  Tahiti  in  greater  numbers  than  they 
do  now,  and  that  will  be  the  time  for  speculators 
to  build  a  larger  hotel  there.  I  have  no  fears  of 
Tahiti  ever  being  spoiled.  It  is  the  kind  of  place 
that  will  conquer  civilization  rather  than  be 
conquered  by  it.  It  was,  at  present,  —  I  was 
told  by  people  who  had  visited  all  the  islands 
in  the  Pacific,  —  the  most  unspoiled  of  all  of 
them.  That  is  why  I  chose  that  route.  Fiji  is 
far  more  progressive,  and  I  dare  say  far  more 
satisfactory  from  a  business  and  European  point 
of  view,  but  it  is  less  interesting  from  a  pictur- 
esque point  of  view. 

I  cannot  imagine  anything  more  ideal  than  to 
possess  a  schooner  fitted  with  a  small  motor, 
in  case  of  calm,  and  to  cruise  about  the  waters 
between  Tahiti  and  the  Marquesas,  which,  one 
is  told,  are  indescribably  beautiful. 

I  understand  why  Stevenson  liked  the  South 


Any   Number  of  Days          133 

Seas  above  all  things.  I  also  understand  why 
he  was  so  loath  to  write  descriptive  articles  about 
them.  They  are  things  to  be  seen ;  they  are  places 
to  be  seen  and  lived  in;  not  to  be  written  about. 
The  pen  can  give  no  idea  of  their  charm.  Steven- 
son does  it  in  his  stories,  and  so  does  another 
well-known  author,  Louis  Becke,  who  is  rightly 
supposed  to  be  the  best  writer  of  fiction  on  the 
South  Seas. 

It  is  possible  now  to  take  trips  to  the  Marque- 
sas from  Tahiti  in  trading  schooners,  but  I  be- 
lieve that  is  not  a  comfortable  manner  of  trans- 
port. The  thing  would  be  to  have  a  schooner 
of  one's  own,- — not  an  auxiliary  schooner,  be- 
cause a  schooner  which  is  provided  with  steam 
ceases  to  be  a  sailing-vessel:  the  sails  are  never 
used;  but  a  schooner  fitted  with  a  motor  would 
ensure  one  against  being  becalmed,  and,  at  the 
same  time,  the  motor  would  not  compete  with 
and  finally  defeat  the  sails. 

Lying  at  anchor  in  Papeete  Harbour,  there  was 


134  Round   the   World   in 

a  magnificent  sailing-vessel  which  had  come  from 
San  Francisco.  It  may  not  be  very  long  before 
such  vessels  cease  to  exist  altogether.  Every 
day  wind-jammers  are  being  turned  into  steam- 
ers, and  sailing-vessels  become  fewer  and  fewer. 
It  is  a  melancholy  fact  for  those  who  love  the 
sea. 

We  stayed  at  Papeete  only  twenty-four  hours. 
If  you  stay  longer  than  that,  you  have  to  stay 
there  a  month,  because  the  steamers  only  call 
there  once  a  month.  Tahiti  is  not  connected  by 
cable  with  any  other  country.  Loath  as  I  was  to 
go,  at  the  end  of  the  twenty-four  hours  I  felt  it 
was  a  good  thing  that  I  was  doing  so;  otherwise 
I  should  have  been  tempted  to  remain  there  for 
the  rest  of  my  life.  Apart  from  other  things,  the 
climate  is  intoxicatingly  pleasant;  hot,  but  not 
too  hot;  prodigal,  at  sunset,  of  the  most  gorgeous 
effects  of  color  and  light;  indescribably  wonder- 
ful in  the  night-time. 

The  most  beautiful  spots  in  Tahiti  are  inland 


Any   Number   of  Days  135 

in  the  island,  and  it  would  take  about  a  month 
to  see  the  place  properly.  Papeete  possesses 
three  public  automobiles  for  hire.  I  tried  the 
whole  of  the  morning  on  the  day  we  left  to  get 
one  of  them,  but  they  had  all  gone  out.  Apart 
from  this,  there  are  a  few  little  carriages  which 
act  as  cabs,  driven  by  Chinamen,  but  they  appear 
to  go  to  sleep  in  the  daytime,  and  only  appear  in 
the  evening.  The  result  was  one  had  to  walk 
about  on  one's  feet  the  whole  time,  and  at  the 
end  of  the  morning  I  did  not  wonder  that  the 
inhabitants  of  this  island  are  disinclined  to  make 
strenuous  efforts.  It  is  the  kind  of  place  where 
you  are  perfectly  satisfied  to  do  nothing.  That 
morning,  nevertheless,  was  one  of  the  most  en- 
joyable I  have  ever  spent.  I  walked  up  and  down 
the  streets,  looking  again  and  again  at  the  gor- 
geous-coloured blossoms  and  the  wonderful  green 
trees. 

Between  the  hours  of  eleven  and  one  o'clock 
the  stores  shut,  and  the  business  of  life  is  inter- 


136  Round   the  World  in 

rupted  for  the  midday  meal  and  subsequent 
repose. 

We  left  Tahiti  in  the  afternoon,  when  the 
greater  part  of  the  population  came  down  to  the 
wharf  to  see  us  off.  We  left  feeling  like  Ulysses 
when  he  was  driven  by  force  from  the  island  of 
Calypso.  And  I  for  one,  in  any  case,  felt  that 
come  what  might,  I  had  had  my  dream.  I  had 
had  a  glimpse  of  Eden,  a  peep  into  the  earthly 
paradise. 

I  have  seen  many  of  the  beautiful  corners  of 
the  world.  A  lake  in  Manchuria  covered  with 
large  pink  lotus  flowers,  as  delicate  as  the  land- 
scape on  a  piece  of  Oriental  china. 

I  have  seen  Linfa,  the  deserted  ruin  of  the 
Roman  Campagna,  rising  from  waters  thick 
with  water-lilies,  and  a  wilderness  of  leaves,  like 
a  castle  which  an  enchanter  has  bade  go  to  sleep 
for  hundreds  of  years. 

I  have  seen,  in  the  Scilly  Isles,  that  island 
which  is  a  white  garden  set  in  the  bluest  of  seas. 


Any   Number  of  Days  137 

I  have  seen  Capri,  and  the  Greek  Islands,  and 
Brusa  in  Asia  Minor  in  the  spring,  when  the 
nightingales  sing  all  day,  and  the  roses  are  in  full 
bloom,  and  the  noise  of  running  water  is  forever 
in  your  ears. 

But  never  have  I  seen  anything  so  captivating 
as  Tahiti,  as  those  long  shady  walks,  those  great 
green  trees,  that  reckless,  untutored  glory  of 
blossom  and  foliage,  those  fruits,  those  flowers, 
and  the  birdlike  talk  of  those  careless  natives, 
who  wreathe  themselves  with  flowers,  and  are 
happy  without  working,  and  who  put  scarlet 
flowers  behind  their  ears  to  signify  they  are  going 
to  enjoy  themselves:  to  have  a  good  time;  to 
paint  the  town  red. 

In  Tahiti  there  are  no  snakes,  and  in  this  re- 
spect at  least  Tahiti  is  superior  to  the  Garden  of 
Eden,  equal  to  Ireland. 


Across  the  Pacific:  September  21  — 
October  3 

IN  describing  the  voyage  across  the  Pacific 
(in  "The  Wrecker"),  Stevenson  says  that  there 
are  certain  periods  in  life  which  leave  behind 
them  a  kind  of  roseate  haze  on  the  map  of  one's 
existence.  You  cannot  remember  the  details; 
you  are  merely  conscious  of  a  kind  of  pleasant 
blur.  I  feel  the  same  thing  about  my  voyage  from 
Tahiti  to  San  Francisco,  but  I  have  not  yet  for- 
gotten and  shall  never  forget  the  details.  That 
voyage  stands  out  for  me  like  a  kind  of  bath 
which  had  the  power  of  restoring  one's  youth 
for  the  time  being.  The  trade  winds  blew  freshly 
the  whole  time.  There  was  a  breeze  even  when 
we  crossed  "the  line."  It  was  tropically  warm, 
and  yet  never  for  one  hour  too  hot.  It  was  only 
at  the  end  of  the  voyage  that  the  freshness  was 
overdone,  that  the  weather  grew  cold,  and  the 
sea  too  rough  for  comfort;  otherwise  the  weather 


Round   the  World  139 

was  perfect.  The  huge  clouds  of  the  Pacific 
chased  one  another  across  the  sky,  as  Stevenson 
describes  them  —  "blotting  out  the  stars "  at 
night,  and  making  fantastic  citadels  in  the 
sunset. 

Apropos  of  the  stars  in  the  tropics,  one  is  al- 
ways told  that  there  is  no  twilight  in  these 
regions.  This  is  not  quite  an  accurate  way  of 
expressing  it.  What  is  accurate,  is  Coleridge's 
line  in  "The  Ancient  Mariner,"  when  he  says, 
"The  Sun's  rim  dips;  the  stars  rush  out."  He 
adds,  "At  one  stride  comes  the  dark."  The 
moment  the  sun  goes  down,  you  do  see  the  stars 
at  once;  but  the  darkness  that  comes  is  not  dark; 
the  red  afterglow  down  on  the  horizon,  and  above 
it  the  luminous  mauve  haze,  which  is  peculiar 
to  the  tropics,  lingers  a  long  time,  and  against 
this  the  great  shapes  of  the  clouds  stand  out 
inky  and  black.  It  is  a  wonderful  sight. 

The  football  boys  used  to  train  twice  a  day. 
A  large  swimming-bath,  made  out  of  a  sail,  had 


140  Round   the   World   in 

been  fixed  up  on  the  deck,  so  that  after  toy- 
ing with  a  little  amateur  training,  one  could 
take  off  one's  clothes  and  splash  about  in  the 
salt  water.  I  do  not  think  I  ever  enjoyed  baths 
so  much. 

In  the  afternoon  many  of  us  used  to  take  sun- 
baths,  and  lie  half  stripped  on  the  upper  deck 
in  the  sun,  till  our  skin  turned  first  red  and  then 
brown.  At  Sydney  everybody  takes  these  sun- 
baths,  and  this  accounts  for  the  bronzed  com- 
plexion of  the  Australians. 

The  football  boys  had  appetites  which  I  have 
rarely  seen  equalled  and  never  seen  surpassed. 

When  I  was  at  school  at  Eton,  there  was  a 
phrase  which  was  peculiar  to  the  place,  namely, 
"a  brozier"  (I  am  not  certain  that  this  is  the 
right  spelling).  "A  brozier "  or  "to  brozier" 
meant  when  the  boys  ate  all  the  food  provided 
for  them  and  clamored  for  more,  until  there  was 
nothing  left  in  the  house. 

There  was,  once  upon  a  time,  a  much-vener- 


Any   Number  of  Days  141 

ated  lady  at  Eton,  called  Miss  Evans,  who  ruled 
over  a  house  of  boys.  One  day  the  boys  settled 
on  "a  brozier,"  and  ate  everything  in  the  house, 
but  Miss  Evans  was  not  to  be  defeated.  She 
produced  a  large,  evil-smelling  cheese,  and  set 
it  before  the  boys,  and  this  cheese  defeated  them. 
The  football  boys  seemed  capable  of  doing 
this  every  day,  and  the  stewards  were  walked  off 
their  feet  by  the  amount  of  fetching  and  carry- 
ing of  dishes  which  they  had  to  perform.  As 
soon  as  the  bugle  blew,  one  heard  a  stampede  of 
feet  going  down  to  the  saloon.  One  felt  inclined 
to  quote  Browning's  celebrated  poem,  and  say, — 

"Dinner's  at  seven  — 
All  's  right  with  the  world." 

It  is  a  curious  thing  that  I  got  to  know  more 
about  Australia  and  New  Zealand  after  having 
left  it  than  I  did  when  I  was  there,  by  the  pres- 
ence and  companionship  of  these  football  boys 
from  New  South  Wales.  Most  of  them  were 
Australians,  some  had  come  from  New  Zealand. 


142  Round   the  World   in 

Besides  being  some  of  the  best  amateur  football 
players  in  the  world,  they  were  the  very  best  of 
good  fellows,  and  to  live  with  them  was  like  being 
transported  back  again  to  Oxford  or  Cambridge 
and  the  days  of  one's  youth. 

After  dinner  in  the  evening  choruses  used  to 
be  sung,  and  singing  in  chorus  is  the  crown  of 
good-fellowship. 

In  the  eighteenth  century  in  England,  when- 
ever people  met  together  to  eat,  drink,  and  enjoy 
themselves,  they  sang.  Song,  alas,  is  now  dying 
out  of  modern  England,  but  it  still  lingers  in 
the  haunts  of  the  young.  Very  few  people  now 
write  drinking-songs,  and  this  surely  testifies  to 
a  lamentable  decay  in  our  morals. 

I  shall  always  be  thankful  to  this  trip  for 
having  afforded  me  a  better  glimpse  of  the  new 
world,  which  I  obtained  through  the  compan- 
ionship of  these  fine  sons  of  Australia  and  New 
Zealand,  than  I  might  have  obtained  by  living 
for  months  in  Wellington  or  Sydney,  because  on 


Any   Number  of  Days          143 

board  a  small  ship  one  gets  to  know  people 
far  more  intimately  than  one  does  anywhere 
else,  and  it  is  by  getting  to  know  people  that  you 
arrive  at  an  understanding  of  a  country.  It  is 
not  through  sight-seeing  that  you  get  to  know  a 
country;  it  is  through  getting  to  know  its  people 
well,  and  through  getting  to  know  the  right  sort 
of  people. 


San  Francisco:  October  3 

THERE  is  no  subject  in  the  world  more  hack- 
neyed than  American  impressions.  Nearly  every 
month  a  writer  of  note  discovers  America  over 
again.  In  spite  of  this,  I  am  told,  there  is  no 
stuff  that  is  more  eagerly  read  in  the  States,  and 
outside  of  them,  than  impressions  of  America 
written  by  a  foreigner.  It  does  n't  seem  to  matter 
whether  such  impressions  are  written  by  a  writer 
of  renown,  such  as  H.  G.  Wells  or  Arnold  Ben- 
nett, or  by  a  totally  unknown  tourist;  it  does  not 
matter  whether  they  are  well  written  or  ill  writ- 
ten, whether  they  are  serious  or  flippant,  amus- 
ing or  dull;  they  are  certain  to  be  read. 

I  think  I  can  understand  the  reason  of  this. 
People  in  any  country  like  to  read  about  them- 
selves. They  like  to  look  upon  their  own  image 
as  it  is  reflected  in  the  mirror  of  foreign  observers. 

It  does  not  much  matter  what  the  mirror  is  like, 
so  long  as  the  image  is  there.  There  is  no  book 


Round   the   Wo  rid  145 

of  impressions  of  England,  for  instance,  that  I 
could  not  read  with  interest. 

Nevertheless,  all  this  does  not  make  the  task 
of  writing  about  America  to  an  American  public 
any  easier.  If  one  is  writing  exclusively  for  one's 
own  native  public,  the  task  is  not  so  difficult. 
One  can  describe  an  American  hotel,  for  instance, 
a  train,  a  tram-car;  one  can  tell  how  one  is 
shaved  and  how  one's  boots  are  blacked;  but 
the  American  public  knows  that  already.  So  the 
task  resolves  itself  into  this:  one  has  to  write 
about  things  which  are  intimately  familiar  to 
the  public  one  is  addressing,  in  such  a  manner 
as  to  make  it  possible  for  them  to  read  what  one 
writes  without  being  tired  to  death  and  throw- 
ing the  book  at  some  one's  head. 

This  being  so,  I  revolve  in  my  mind  the  dif- 
ferent methods  which  could  be  applied  to  the 
task.  First  of  all,  there  is  the  method  to  which 
I  have  already  alluded,  and  in  some  cases  used 
in  these  notes:  the  method  of  not  writing  about 


146  Round   the  World  in 

America  at  all,  but  about  something  else.  You 
would  begin  writing  like  this:  "The  day  I  ar- 
rived at  San  Francisco,  I  was  thinking  about 
Venice,"  and  then  you  would  write  a  chapter  on 
Venice.  But  I  do  not  think  people  would  stand 
this. 

Then  you  could  use  the  manner  of  Bernard 
Shaw.  You  could  write  a  "discussion"  on  Amer- 
ica in  three  acts,  in  which  an  aeronaut,  a  milliner, 
a  Salvation  Army  girl,  a  capitalist,  a  High- 
Church  clergyman,  and  a  lady  Socialist  would 
sit  round  a  table  and  discuss  America. 

You  would  begin  with  a  preface  on  trusts, 
Italian  opera,  vivisection,  submarines,  and  prize- 
fighting. Then  you  would  get  to  the  discussion. 
This  would  be  prefaced  by  five  pages  of  stage- 
directions,  with  regard  to  the  room  in  which  the 
discussion  was  to  take  place.  Then  one  of  the 
characters  would  enter,  and  there  would  be  two 
pages  of  stage-directions  in  very  small  print 
about  the  facial  expression,  the  clothes,  the  boots, 


Any   Number  of  Days          147 

the  watch,  the  cigarette-case  of  that  character. 
Then  the  character  would  do  a  little  business,— 
open  the  window,  perhaps,  or  shut  it.  More 
characters  would  enter,  heralded  by  more  stage- 
directions.  Then  the  characters,  having  sat  down, 
would  discuss  America,  and  incidentally  every 
other  country  under  the  sun,  especially  England. 

The  discussion  would  be  forbidden  by  the 
censorship  in  England,  because  one  of  the  charac- 
ters would  be  called  Askfour,  and  this  would  be 
considered  allusion  to 

(a)  Mr.  Asquith 

(6)  Mr.  Balfour 

(c)  Sir  George  Askwith  (on  account  of  the 

"k");- 

and  so  the  discussion  would  be  acted  in  the  Little 
Theatre  at  New  York,  and  in  London  by  the 
State  Society  on  Sunday  evenings. 

Then  I  might  adopt  the  method  of  Pierre  Loti. 
This  is  called  the  "dot-and-dash"  method.  It 
is  like  the  Morse  code  made  poetic.  You  begin 


148  Round   the  World  in 

a  sentence  and  leave  it  unfinished,  adding  a  lot 
of  dots  like  this:  — 

New  York 

I  am  in  New  York-.  -  .  .  .but  I  am  not  think- 
ing of  New  York. .-....-  I  am  thinking  of  some- 
thing else. . . .  -  .  .the  other  places the  East 

the  desert Stamboul 

Ispahan Sadi 

(Then  a  whole  line  of  dots.) 

(Then  you  begin  again.) 

I  am  in  New  York tall  buildings 

rise  wistful  and  white  in  the  pale  milky  sky 

They  are  very  tall,   those   buildings They 

affect  me  with  a  strange  longing  to  go  away 

to  be  somewhere  else anywhere  else 

not  here There where? Beyond. . 


Translate  that  into  French,  and  you  get  the 
Loti-Morse  method. 

Then  there  is  the  Masefield  method.  That 
would  consist  in  writing  an  enormously  long 
poem  about  the  Bowery,  in  verse  full  of  exple- 


VERY   FEW   WRITERS   THINK   WHEN    THEY   ARE   WRITING 


AnyNumber   ofDays  149 

tives,  oaths,  and  tough  adjectives,  called  "  Street- 
pity." 

"Take  that,  and  that,  and  go  to  Hell. 
Hell,  Hell,  Hell,  Hell." 

On  reflection,  I  reject  all  these  methods.  I  will 
leave  the  matter  to  my  pen. 

The  only  way  to  write  is  to  let  the  pen  do  the 
work,  like  what  ^happens  in  planchette  (except 
when  somebody  cheats).  Very  few  writers  think 
before  they  write  or  even  when  they  are  writing; 
they  let  their  pen  guide  their  thoughts.  And  I 
am  certain  that  those  writers  who  write  too  much 
suffer  from  a  disease  of  the  fingers  and  not  of  the 
brain. 

Before  saying  a  word  about  America,  I  apolo- 
gize for  anything  I  shall  say  which  may  sound 
or  be  absurd. 

A  wit  once  said  that  the  American  and  Eng- 
lish people  had  everything  in  common,  except, 
of  course,  the  language.  There  is,  I  think,  a 
great  deal  of  truth  in  this:  the  words  are  the 


150  Round   the  World  in 

same,  but  they  mean  different  things  and  they 
are  used  in  different  ways. 

Some  day,  when  I  have  learned  the  American 
language  properly,  I  mean  to  write  a  large  book 
on  the  American  language.  In  the  mean  time, 
the  following  condensed  grammar  for  foreign- 
ers may  prove  useful  for  Americans  going  to 
England,  as  well  as  for  Englishmen  going  to 
America:  — 

Chapter  I 

\  Rule  I.  (Very  important.)  Whenever  you  say 
"in"  in  English  say  either  "on"  or  "to" 
in  American. 

(Note  that  all  English  people  say,  "  on 
a  ship,"  except  British  naval  officers.  If 
you  say,  "on  a  ship,"  to  a  British  naval 
officer,  —  if,  for  instance,  you  say,  "Jones 
is  on  the  Dreadnought,"  he  will  get  very 
angry  and  correct  you,  and  say,  "in  the 
Dreadnought.") 

There  are  one  hundred  and  twenty-six 
exceptions  to  this  rule,  the  most  important 
of  which  is  this:  — 


Any   Number  of  Days          151 

"To  be  in  trouble"  is  not  translated  "to 
be  on  trouble"  in  American. 

Rule  II.  The  two  most  important  words  in  Ameri- 
can are  "proposition"  and  "stunt." 

Everything  is  either  a  proposition  or  a 
stunt. 
There  are  no  other  rules. 


Exercise 
Translate  the  following  story  into  American:  — 

THE  MOUSE  AND  THE  LION 

Once  upon  a  time  a  Mouse  went  and  trod  on  a 
Lion  who  was  asleep.  The  Lion,  who  had  been  late 
in  going  to  bed  the  night  before  (translate  "had  a 
hang-over"),  woke  up,  and  after  saying,  "Bother 
you,"  seized  the  Mouse,  and  prepared  to  eat  it. 

But  the  Mouse,  who  was  as  brave  as  a  mouse, 
said,  "Let  me  go,  you  son  of  a  Lioness;  perhaps 
some  day  I  may  do  you  a  good  turn." 

The  Lion,  having  laughed  the  Mouse  to  scorn, 
let  it  go,  saying:  "A  Mouse  do  a  Lion  a  good  turn. 
How  witty!" 

Some  time  afterwards,  some  hunters  caught  the 
Lion,  and  put  it  into  a  large  net. 

The  Mouse,  which  happened  to  be  there,  hearing 


Round   the  World   in 


the  Lion  groan,  came  and  nibbled  away  the  net 
(translate  "got  busy"),  until  the  Lion  was  free. 

"Don't  you  remember,"  said  the  Mouse,  "my 
telling  you  that  I  might  some  day  do  you  a  good 
turn?  You  see  how  right  you  were  not  to  eat  me 
then." 

"Yes,  that's  true,"  said  the  Lion,  and  it  ate  the 
Mouse. 

Conversation 


Did  you  hand  the  gardener's 
niece  a  lemon? 

Where  is  the  son  of  the  stock- 
broker? 

What  is  the  son  of  the  stock- 
broker doing  on  the  street? 

Will  the  son  of  the  stockbroker 
be  stung? 

Is  the  son  of  the  stockbroker  a 
cooker? 

Did  the  son  of  the  baker  call 
the  son  of  the  cook  a  four- 
flusher? 

Did  the  cousin  of  the  carpenter 
make  the  brother-in-law  of 
the  blacksmith  look  like  30 
cents? 

Is  it  up  to  you  to  put  it  over 
him? 

Did  the  son  of  the  banker,  when 
his  father  gave  him  his  bless- 
ing for  a  birthday  present, 
say  it  was  a  two- spot  on  the 
show-down? 


No,  but  I  threw  a  bouquet  at 
the  brother  of  the  carpenter. 
He  is  on  the  street. 

The  son  of  the  stockbroker  is 

looking  for  hens'  teeth. 
Yes,  good  and  plenty. 

No,  the  son  of  the  stockbroker 

is  a  quitter. 
No,  he  called  him  a  son  of   a 

gun. 

No,  he  got  his. 


Sure,  Mike. 

Yes,  and  he  said  the  gent  was  a 
piece  of  cheese. 


Any   Number  of  Days  153 


Can  you   see  anything  to  the  Yes,  $5,100,000. 

daughter  of  the  money-lender? 

Did  the  second  cousin  of  the  No,   the  second  cousin  of  the 

tough  get  outside  four  bottles?  tough  has  been  on  the  water- 
wagon  for  three  moons. 

Is  the  nephew  of  the  crook  a  No,  the  nephew  of  the  crook  is  a 

booze-fighter?  Bull-Mooser. 

Will  the  uncle  of  the  stockbroker  No,  the  uncle  of  the  stockbroker 

lend  me  fifty  dollars?  is  a  tight-wad. 


What  differentiates  the  arrival  at  an  American 
port  or  city  from  the  arrival  at  the  port  or  city 
of  any  other  country  is  that  in  America  you 
will  find  a  whole  lot  of  people  who  are  there  to 
meet  your  wants  and  your  need.  When  you 
arrive  in  any  foreign  country,  you  are  necessarily 
ignorant  of  nearly  all  those  things  which  it  is 
essential  you  should  know.  Now,  in  most  coun- 
tries you  find  nobody  to  help  deal  with  that  ig- 
norance and  to  help  you  out  of  a  situation  created 
by  it.  In  America,  on  the  other  hand,  you  will 
find  a  whole  lot  of  people  who  are  there  to  find 
out  what  you  want  to  do,  and  to  help  you  to  do  it 
in  the  most  convenient  and  quickest  way.  They 
make  a  business  of  it.  It  pays  them  and  it  helps 


154  Round   the  World  in 

you.  It  pays  them  to  help  you  better  than  some 
one  else  helps  you. 

I  have  met  in  England  quite  a  lot  of  people 
who  are  frightened  at  the  thought  of  going  to 
America,  because  they  feel  so  ignorant  of  the 
conditions  obtaining  there.  They  need  feel  no 
such  alarm.  They  will  find  a  crowd  of  people 
competing  among  themselves  as  to  who  can  best 
put  them  in  the  way  of  what  they  want  to  do. 
For  instance,  when  I  arrived  at  San  Francisco, 
agents  came  on  board  the  ship  from  all  of  the 
different  railway  lines,  each  of  which  was  ready 
to  fix  up  your  journey  for  you  and  do  anything 
you  wanted.  Each  railway  line  wants  you  to 
travel  by  their  line,  so  each  line  makes  it  his 
business  that  you  should  have  every  possible 
inducement  to  do  so. 

When  I  arrived  at  San  Francisco,  I  thought  I 
might  have  to  proceed  on  my  journey  that  same 
night,  but  I  also  wanted  to  get  some  money  from 
the  bank.  I  had  arrived  after  the  closing-time 


Any   Number  of  Days  155 

of  banks.  In  any  other  country  this  would  have 
been  an  insuperable  obstacle  in  the  way  of  getting 
money.  In  San  Francisco,  not  at  all.  The  repre- 
sentative of  the  Santa  Fe  Line,  which  I  wished  to 
travel  by,  immediately  took  me  to  an  office 
where  I  could  get  money  on  presentation  of  my 
letter  of  credit.  The  whole  business  was  fixed 
up  in  about  ten  minutes ;  in  most  other  countries 
it  takes  about  half  a  day  to  draw  on  a  letter  of 
credit  in  a  bank;  it  is  quite  impossible  to  draw 
on  it  after  business  hours. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  did  not  proceed  on  my 
journey  that  night.  Here,  again,  there  was  no 
difficulty  in  cancelling  my  sleeping-berth. 

All  these  things,  which  are  a  matter  of  course 
to  the  American,  are  unheard  of  in  European 
countries.  Nobody  in  Europe  has  made  it  a  fine 
art  to  meet  the  convenience  of  travellers,  with 
the  exception,  of  course,  of  Messrs.  Cook  &  Son; 
but  when  Cook's  office  is  closed,  it  is  closed,  and 
nothing  can  open  it.  In  America,  as  far  as  I  can 


156  Round   the  World  in 

see,  nothing  is  ever  completely  closed.  There 
will  always  be  somebody  somewhere  to  get  you 
what  you  want. 

In  San  Francisco,  to-day,  it  is  difficult  to  de- 
tect any  traces  of  the  fire  which  followed  the 
earthquake.  The  enormous  high  buildings  look 
as  if  they  had  always  been  there. 

I  drove  to  the  hotel  —  the  St.  Francis  —  after 
having  finished  my  business  in  the  city,  in  a  taxi. 
This  is  an  expensive  thing  to  do,  but  practically 
the  only  time  you  need  do  it  is  when  you  are 
coming  from  the  boat.  In  spite  of  this,  one  some- 
times wishes  that  taxis  in  America  were  cheaper. 
I  think  there  is  only  one  country  in  the  world 
where  it  is  within  the  means  of  the  really  poor 
to  hire  a  cab,  and  that  is  —  Russia.  A  poor  man 
can  take  a  cab  just  as  easily  as  a  rich  man  there, 
because  there  is  no  standard  charge.  The  charge 
depends  on  the  cabman,  and  sometimes  he  will 
drive  you  for  almost  nothing.  I  have  often  seen 
extremely  poor  people  take  cabs  in  Russia. 


Any   Number   of  Days  157 

In  Moscow,  the  cab-drivers  very  often  own 
their  cabs.  They  bargain  with  you  before  you 
get  into  the  cab,  as  to  the  price  of  the  drive,  and 
if  the  driver  does  not  agree  to  your  price,  he  will 
not  drive  you. 

New  York,  I  suppose,  is  the  only  city  now 
where  hansom  cabs  still  exist.  In  London,  the 
only  place  where  you  can  find  one  is  the  British 
Museum. 

The  first  thing  that  struck  me  in  San  Fran- 
cisco, and  in  America  altogether,  was  the  archi- 
tecture. Many  years  ago,  when  I  was  in  Flor- 
ence, I  was  present  in  the  house  of  a  famous 
picture  expert,  when  he  and  some  well-known 
archaeologists  were  discussing  architecture,  and 
some  one  who  was  present  said  he  wondered 
whether  there  would  ever  be  a  Renaissance  in 
architecture.  One  of  the  archaeologists  present 
said  that  this  Renaissance  was  already  happen- 
ing in  America. 

I  do  not  think  there  are  any  modern  buildings 


158  Round   the  World  in 

in  Europe  which  can  compare  with  the  modern 
buildings  in  America.  But  apart  from  such  mas- 
terpieces as  the  Pennsylvania  Railroad  Station, 
Pierpont  Morgan's  library,  and  the  wonderful 
towers  and  skyscrapers  in  New  York,  it  struck 
me  that  all  the  little  houses  you  saw  everywhere 
in  the  country  round  San  Francisco  and  along 
the  Sante  Fe  Railway  track,  and  again  in  Long 
Island,  were  remarkable  for  their  symmetry, 
their  good  proportions,  and  their  daintiness. 
For  instance,  the  country  in  New  Zealand  is 
covered  with  little  bungalows;  so  is  the  country 
round  San  Francisco ;  but  the  difference  between 
them  is  immense.  There  is  no  elegance  or  pretti- 
ness  about  the  bungalows  in  New  Zealand;  they 
are  heavy,  unshapely,  and  monotonous;  there 
is  no  taste  or  design  about  them;  while  in  San 
Francisco,  on  the  contrary,  they  are  extremely 
varied,  remarkable  for  their  proportion,  attrac- 
tive-looking, and  often  extremely  pretty.  I  be- 
lieve that  in  the  American  character  there  is  a 


Any  Number  of  Days  159 

deep  sense  of  symmetry,  shape,  and  neatness. 
I  think  there  are  evidences  of  this  in  all  depart- 
ments of  American  life:  in  the  clothes  of  the  men 
and  women;  in  their  neatness;  in  the  quickness 
and  neatness  of  their  phrases  and  their  humour ; 
in  the  ingenuity  of  their  machinery.  There  is 
a  constant  tendency  to  do  away  with  what  is 
unnecessary.  In  the  finest  American  buildings 
what  strikes  one  most  is  the  absence  of  unneces- 
sary ornamentation  and  detail  of  architect's 
"twiddles,"  which,  in  England,  for  instance,  it 
is  impossible  to  get  architects  to  leave  out,  do 
what  you  will. 

The  Pennsylvania  Railroad  Station  and  Pier- 
pont  Morgan's  library  have  the  simplicity  of 
Greek  architecture. 

To  go  back  again  to  San  Francisco,  the  climate 
is  like  champagne.  There  is  gaiety  in  the  air. 
The  streets  and  the  houses  seem  to  radiate  with 
amusement  and  cheerfulness.  San  Francisco  is 
essentially  a  night  city,  and  next  to  Paris,  I 


160  Round   the  World  in 

should  say  it  was  the  gayest  night  city  in  the 
world. 

I  have  met  with  a  great  deal  of  hospitality  all 
over  the  world,  but  I  have  never  met  with  peo- 
ple who  take  so  much  trouble  for  the  stranger 
as  the  Americans.  A  friend  of  mine  in  New  York 
met  a  friend  of  his,  and  asked  this  friend  if  he 
had  any  acquaintances  in  San  Francisco,  and 
if  so,  whether  they  could  do  anything  for  me. 
This  friend  of  my  friend's  immediately  sent  a  lot 
of  telegrams  to  San  Francisco,  the  result  of  which 
was  that  I  instantly  received  cards  of  invitation 
to  three  different  clubs,  and  that  I  was,  that  very 
night,  entertained  at  the  Pacific  Union  Club. 

Here  again  was  an  example  of  beautiful  archi- 
tecture. The  club  is  the  last  word  of  luxury,  but 
the  luxury  is  subordinate  to  taste  and  design. 
It  is  not  over-ornamented.  When  new  clubs  are 
built  in  England,  for  the  sheer  purpose  of  luxury, 
such  as,  for  instance,  the  Automobile  Club,  the 
result  is  ramshackle,  shoddy,  pretentious,  and 


Any   Number   of  Days          161 

hideous.  There  is  nothing  solid  about  it  in  taste 
or  in  design  —  merely  luxurious  gaudiness.  I  do 
not  think  there  is  in  the  whole  of  the  world  a 
club  to  compare  in  luxury,  solid  comfort,  and 
fine  proportion  with  the  San  Francisco  Pacific 
Union.  The  food  is  as  excellent  as  the  archi- 
tecture. 

I  was  also  taken  to  the  Bohemian  Club,  which 
is  famous  for  its  great  yearly  entertainment  in 
the  redwood  region. 

There  is  also  a  wonderful  home  of  athletics, 
which  I  visited,  called  the  Olympic  Club,  which 
has  not  long  been  built.  It  contains  every  kind 
of  bath  you  can  imagine,  and  an  enormous  salt- 
water swimming-bath.  It  is  the  kind  of  bath 
you  can  imagine  the  ancient  Romans  built  for 
themselves,  and,  indeed,  American  cities  lead 
one  to  think  that  in  many  respects  they  are  like 
ancient  Rome :  the  quantity  of  marble  employed ; 
the  detailed  supply  which  is  ever  present  to  meet 
the  demands  and  the  needs  of  the  individual. 


162  Round   the  World  in 

During  my  second  day  in  San  Francisco,  I 
was  taken  by  a  friend  to  see  a  ranch.  We  went 
by  train,  and  then  drove  in  a  machine  over  the 
beautiful  hills,  right  into  the  heart  of  the  coun- 
try. There  is  no  country  more  beautiful  than 
California.  At  this  moment,  although  no  rain 
had  fallen  for  some  time,  the  green  was  still 
vivid,  the  colours  of  the  foliage  mellow  and  soft 
and  indescribably  varied.  The  atmosphere  of  the 
hills  softened  the  tints,  and  the  harmony  of  colour 
was  soft  and  gorgeous. 

Riding  back  we  passed  through  Stanford  Uni- 
versity, which  possesses  in  its  university  build- 
ings a  striking  example  of  American  genius  for 
architecture. 

Next  day  I  went  to  see  the  Australian  Football 
Team  play  a  local  team.  I  do  not  think  the 
American  public  is  very  highly  interested  in 
Rugby  football,  judging  from  the  gate,  which 
was  not  a  very  good  one,  as  the  introduction  of 
the  Rugby  game  in  America  is  comparatively 


Any   Number   of  Days  163 

recent.  The  local  team  played  very  well,  but 
they  did  not  seem  familiar  with  some  of  the  rules. 
The  Australian  boys  had  not  yet  recovered  from 
their  journey;  nevertheless,  they  won. 

After  the  match  was  over,  I  drove  back  with 
them  to  the  Olympic  Club,  where  they  bathed. 

The  next  day  I  went  with  some  friends,  first 
by  ferry  across  the  bay,  then  by  train,  till  we 
reached  the  hills.  We  climbed  up  into  the  hills, 
where  great  vistas  of  gorgeous  scenery  lay  be- 
neath one,  and  then,  walking  down  into  the  val- 
ley, we  wandered  about  amongst  the  trunks  of 
the  huge  topless  redwood.  A  mountain  railway 
took  us  down  to  the  level  again. 

No  words  can  describe  the  glory  of  the  Cali- 
fornia scenery  when  you  get  up  into  these  hills, 
which  are  covered  with  woods,  and  nothing  can 
give  you  any  idea  of  the  sweetness  and  the  fresh- 
ness of  the  air  there. 

The  next  night  I  left  San  Francisco  for  Chi- 
cago. Before  leaving  San  Francisco,  I  had  dinner 


164  Round   the  World  in 

at  a  restaurant  called  the  "New  Franks."  It  is 
a  small  restaurant,  and  it  provides  the  best 
food  I  have  ever  eaten  anywhere.  When  people 
speak  in  this  way  of  a  restaurant,  they  often 
mean  that  they  happened  on  that  day  to  be 
hungry  and  to  have  a  good  appetite.  I  was  not 
hungry  the  night  I  went  to  the  New  Franks.  I 
was  not  inclined  to  eat,  but  the  sheer  excellence 
of  the  cooking  there  excited  my  greed,  and  bade 
my  appetite  rise  from  the  dead. 

The  cooking  was  perfect.  There  is  no  other 
word  for  it.  When  I  say  the  cooking  was  perfect, 
I  mean  the  food  was  perfectly  cooked.  I  don't 
mean  that  there  were  dozens  of  messy  entrees 
and  highly  spiced  sauces.  The  food  was  of  the 
simplest.  I  had  soup  (soup  a  Voignon,  a  dream!), 
fish,  and  chicken,  and  I  never  tasted  anything 
so  good  in  my  life. 

Anatole  France  tells  somewhere  the  story  of 
a  king,  who,  powerful  as  he  was  (or  rather  just 
because  he  was  all-powerful),  was  condemned 


Any   Number  of  Days          165 

to  the  luxury  of  a  huge  kitchen  and  a  huge  staff 
of  cooks,  who  served  him  up  elaborate  tasteless 
dishes  which  meant  nothing  to  him.  And  this 
was  sad,  adds  Anatole  France,  for  he  liked  good 
food  (Car  il  aimait  la  bonne  chere). 

He  would  have  found  it  at  the  New  Franks, 
which  is  under  the  direction  of  Mr.  Peter  Koch- 
ely,  a  Dalmatian.  His  cook,  or  cooks,  are  French- 
men, and  1  think  a  part  of  the  success  which  his 
restaurant  enjoys  and  the  greater  part  of  the 
excellence  which  it  reaches  are  due  to  his  eagle 
eye,  which  detects  from  a  distance  the  likes  and 
dislikes  of  every  customer. 

The  trouble  about  small  restaurants,  when 
they  are  excellent,  is,  that  they  become  well 
known,  and  are  then  so  largely  patronized  that 
they  become  large  and  ultimately  bad. 

Once  I  was  walking  in  Normandy  with  a 
friend,  and  we  stopped  in  a  very  small  town  to 
have  luncheon  at  a  hotel.  We  asked  if  there 
was  any  wine.  Yes,  there  was  some  wine,  some 


i66  Round   the   World   in 

Burgundy,  some  Beaune.  We  tried  a  bottle,  and 
it  surprised  us.  Surprise  is,  in  fact,  a  mild  word 
to  describe  the  sharpness  of  our  ecstasy. 

"  Is  not  this  wine  very  good?  "  we  asked  of  the 
host. 

"Yes,  sirs,"  he  answered,  "it  is  very  good. 
It  is  very  old,  but  there  is  not  much  of  it  left." 

Now,  my  friend  was  a  journalist,  who  writes 
about  French  towns  and  French  wines  in  the 
English  press. 

"Whatever  happens,"  I  said  to  him,  "if  you 
write  about  this  town  and  about  this  wine,  which 
I  know  you  will  do,  you  must  not  divulge  the 
name  of  the  town." 

He  agreed.  He  wrote  an  article  about  the 
town,  he  grew  lyric  over  the  wine,  and  looted  all 
the  poets  of  the  world  from  Homer  downwards 
for  epithets  and  comparisons  fit  for  it.  And  he 
did  not  mention  the  name  of  the  place. 

The  year  after,  he  returned  to  the  same  place 
and  ordered  a  bottle  of  the  Burgundy.  There 


Any   Number   of  Days  167 

was  no  more  left.  Some  English  gentlemen,  the 
host  told  him,  had  come  on  purpose  from  Eng- 
land to  finish  it. 

Now,  I  am  sure  some  very  intelligent  man, 
and  a  man  who  was  desperately  fond  of  good 
wine,  read  the  article,  and  guessed  from  the 
description  the  whereabouts  of  the  little  French 
town  and  the  precious  liquid. 

The  moral  of  this  is:  "  Don't  tell  secrets  in  the 
newspapers;  don't  even  tell  half  a  secret. " 

The  evening  I  left  San  Francisco,  I  had  a  small 
adventure.  I  asked  a  man  the  way  to  some  street. 
He  told  me  the  way,  and  then,  catching  hold  of 
my  arm,  he  said,  "You  will  stand  me  a  drink." 

I  said  I  would,  and  we  went  into  a  drinking- 
saloon.  Then  he  said,  "  I  'm  a  bum.  I  was  [and 
he  stated  his  profession],  and  I  Ve  been  fixed. 
I'm  a  booze-fighter."  He  added  with  engaging 
frankness  that  he  was  half  drunk. 

In  the  course  of  conversation,  it  turned  out 
that  we  had  a  common  friend,  and  had  I  not  been 


i68  Round  the  World  in 

going  off  on  the  train,  I  would  have  taken  him 
off  to  supper. 

A  singular  proof  of  the  smallness  of  the  world. 

Before  taking  leave  of  San  Francisco,  however, 
I  want  to  say  a  word  or  two  more.  First  of  all 
about  the  clubs. 

To  a  man  who  is  used  to  the  staid  silence  of 
London  clubs,  American  clubs  are  exhilarating. 
I  was  present,  for  instance,  at  a  dinner  at  the 
Bohemian  Club,  the  "High  Jinks  Dinner," 
which  takes  place  once  a  year.  Every  year  the 
members  of  the  club  camp  out  in  the  redwood 
region,  where  the  enormous  trees  grow  which 
you  see  in  pictures,  and  there,  in  an  amphi- 
theatre formed  by  these  vast  topless  trunks,  they 
give  an  open-air  opera,  written,  composed,  and 
played  by  themselves.  Later  on,  when  they  come 
back  to  the  city,  they  give  a  dinner  in  the  club, 
followed  by  a  theatrical  entertainment,  which  is 
a  burlesque  on  the  opera  given  in  the  camp :  also 
written,  composed,  and  played  by  themselves. 


Any   Number   ofDays  169 

It  was  at  this  dinner  I  was  present,  and  spon- 
taneous gaiety  bubbled  from  that  entertain- 
ment like  champagne  out  of  a  bottle. 

There  was  champagne  in  the  concrete  also, 
as  well  as  in  the  abstract.  But  the  gaiety  was 
more  spontaneous  and  more  infectious  than 
I  have  seen  at  any,  even  Bohemian,  club  in  Lon- 
don. I  fancy  that  San  Francisco  some  day  will 
be  the  great  pleasure  city  of  the  world:  the  meet- 
ing-place of  East  and  West,  owing  to  its  situa- 
tion, its  incomparable  climate,  its  beautiful 
surroundings,  and  the  microbe  of  gaiety  which 
is  in  the  air  of  the  place.  And  then  San  Fran- 
cisco is  the  golden  gate  which  opens  on  to  the 
enchanted  realms  of  the  Pacific. 

I  travelled  to  New  York  on  the  Santa  Fe  Line, 
meaning  to  stop  and  see  the  Grand  Canon,  but, 
as  it  turned  out,  I  had  to  go  right  on  to  Chi- 
cago. 

Writers  of  American  impressions  generally 
deliver  themselves  of  a  solemn  verdict  on  the 


170  Round   the  World   in 

trains,  the  sleeping-car  accommodations,  and 
their  merits  and  demerits. 

"You  won't  like  the  sleeping-berths,"  said 
an  American  to  me,  before  I  started;  "no  Eng- 
lishman ever  does." 

When  I  got  on  to  the  Pullman  car,  I  found  it 
was  quite  different  from  what  I  had  imagined.  I 
thought  the  berths  would  be  stretched  horizon- 
tally three  quarters  of  the  way  across  the  car. 
The  fact  of  their  being  placed  sideways  gives  the 
sleeper  a  much  broader  berth  than  he  has  on 
European  trains. 

But  I  will  discuss  this  presently. 

There  is  one  feature  on  American  trains  which 
is  very  different  from  anything  in  England  and 
Europe  —  the  attitude  of  the  conductors.  In 
England,  and  in  most  European  countries,  the 
conductor  hovers  round  you  for  a  tip.  In  America 
the  conductor  is  an  independent  citizen;  but 
I  found  him  a  singularly  kind-hearted  one. 

I  wanted  to  send  a  telegram  to  Chicago.   He 


Any   Number   of  Days  171 

did  it  for  me.  He  "  dead-headed "  it.  He  found 
out  everything  I  wanted  to  know.  He  was  my 
guide,  philosopher,  and  friend  on  my  way  to 
Chicago. 

There  is  something  very  attractive  about 
this  warm-hearted  human  kindness  which  one 
meets  with  in  America,  and  something  very 
refreshing  in  the  absence  of  servility. 

It  makes  one  breathe  deep  from  his  lungs  to 
be  among  people  who  treat  you  as  an  equal,  and 
expect  to  be  treated  as  an  equal  by  you. 

There  are  some  countries  which  profess  de- 
mocracy, where,  under  the  pretence  of  treating 
you  as  an  equal,  the  inhabitants  take  pains  to 
treat  you  as  an  inferior,  but  this  is  not  so  in 
America. 

Somebody  —  a  historian,  I  believe  —  said  that 
in  the  far  future  America  and  Russia  would 
carry  everything  before  them,  owing  to  their 
driving  power,  which  came  from  a  fundamental 
kindness  of  heart.  I  believe  this  to  be  true. 


172  RoundtheWorld 

Russia  and  America  are  the  two  most  hospitable 
countries  I  have  ever  visited.  I  think  the  Rus- 
sians and  the  Americans  are  the  kindest  people 
in  the  world,  and  their  countries  the  most  really 
democratic  (whatever  their  respective  govern- 
ments may  be). 

I  spent  only  a  few  hours  at  Chicago,  where  I 
wandered  like  an  ant  among  the  gigantic  build- 
ings; then  I  went  right  on  to  New  York,  along 
the  beautiful  Hudson  River,  all  glorious  in  the 
October  tints  of  its  woods  and  foliage,  and  then 
I  reached  New  York. 

After  my  first  two  days  in  New  York,  I  felt 
as  the  Queen  of  Sheba  felt  after  she  had  been 
shown  over  King  Solomon's  private  residence: 
there  was  no  spirit  in  me.  The  place  took  my 
breath  away,  and  I  have  n't  yet  got  it  back,  but 
of  that  later. 


New  York:  October 

"THE  difference  between  New  York  and  Lon-. 
don,"  a  man  once  said  to  me,  "is  this:  in  New 
York,  if  you  have  a  new  idea,  you  can  get  it 
carried  out  at  once;  in  London,  if  you  have  a  new 
idea,  you  are  up  against  a  brick  wall." 

I  believe  this  to  be  true.  People  in  New  York, 
and  in  America  in  general,  are  not  afraid  of  new 
ideas,  nor,  indeed,  of  anything  new.  They  are 
not  afraid  of  the  future.  In  England,  if  a  man 
finds,  for  instance,  that  his  profession  is  uncon- 
genial to  him,  however  certain  he  may  be  of  the 
impossibility  of  his  making  a  success  of  it,  he  will 
none  the  less  very  rarely  give  it  up  and  try  his 
hand  at  something  else.  The  future  alarms  him. 
In  America  a  man  will  think  nothing  of  throw- 
ing up  his  profession  twenty  times  running,  until 
he  finds  something  which  does  suit  him. 

I  think  the  cause  of  this  particular  difference 
lies  in  the  climate  of  America,  and  especially  in 


174  Round   the  World  in 

the  climate  of  New  York.  Just  as  the  climate  of 
some  places  fills  the  whole  system  with  an  invin- 
cible desire  to  do  nothing,  with  an  insuperable 
languor  and  sloth,  in  the  same  way  the  climate 
of  New  York  fills  the  body  and  mind  with  the 
desire  to  be  up  and  about.  It  is  the  nimble  air 
which  produces  the  nimble  wits:  the  stimulating 
atmosphere  which  creates,  in  the  denizen  of  New 
York,  the  love  of  bustle,  hurry,  competition,  and 
work.  I  am  not  saying  this  is  either  a  good  thing 
or  a  bad  thing  —  I  am  merely  noting  and  record- 
ing what  struck  me  as  being  the  main  differences 
between  New  York  and  London.  London,  com- 
pared with  certain  cities,  say  Constantinople  or 
Seville,  seems  a  whirlpool  of  energy;  compared 
with  New  York,  it  is  slack.  Compared  with  New 
Yorkers,  Londoners  are  slackers.  They  go  to 
bed  earlier,  they  get  up  later,  they  do  infinitely 
less  during  the  day,  and  they  do  it  more  slowly. 
They  waste  more  time.  On  the  other  hand,  they 
suffer  less  from  "nerve  trouble/*  They  do  not 


Any   Number  ofDays          175 

live  on  their  nerves.  In  New  York  the  people  do. 
Very  often,  when  you  talk  to  some  one  who  is 
employed,  say  in  a  store,  in  New  York,  you  feel 
as  if  he  was  so  highly  strung  as  to  be  on  the 
verge  of  breaking  down;  another  turn  of  the 
screw  and  you  feel  he  would  break  down.  You 
never  feel  this  in  talking  to  a  Londoner.  In  talk- 
ing to  a  Londoner,  you  often  want  to  give  him 
a  dose  of  H.  G.  Wells's  "  accelerator/'  the  medi- 
cine which  makes  you  live  more  quickly.  In  talk- 
ing to  a  New  Yorker,  you  often  think  he  would 
be  the  better  for  a  dose  of  some  patent  procras- 
tinator,  which  would  have  the  effect  of  making 
the  wheels  of  his  physical  and  mental  machinery 
work  slower. 

A  street  boy,  a  child,  in  New  York,  is  more 
nimble-minded,  more  agile  in  thought  and  ex- 
pression, than  the  quickest- witted  Englishman. 
He  will  have  got  there  and  be  walking  round  him 
in  thought  before  the  Englishman  has  begun  to 
express  himself.  I  was  much  struck  by  the  pa- 


176  Round   the  World   in 

tience  and  tolerance  shown  to  me  by  lift-boys  and 
other  children  in  dealing  with  some  one  so  much 
heavier-witted  and  sluggish-minded  than  them- 
selves, especially  when  one  began  cumbrously 
to  explain  something  they  had  already  under- 
stood some  minutes  before. 

Does  all  this  lead  to  a  waste  of  energy,  like  a 
lot  of  soda-water  bottles  bursting  their  stoppers 
and  fizzing  into  space?  I  don't  know.  It  cer- 
tainly leads  to  nervous  breakdowns  and  nervous 
strain  in  general.  The  air  in  New  York  acts  like 
a  constant  pick-me-up  and  enables  you  to  do 
tiring  things  all  day  without  making  you  feel 
tired.  But  some  day  or  other  you  have,  I  sup- 
pose, to  pay  for  this. 

So  much  for  the  air  and  the  atmosphere  of 
New  York  —  a  delicious  air  to  the  newcomer; 
in  any  case,  a  tingling,  stimulating,  intoxicating 
atmosphere  to  the  stranger;  and  air,  as  people 
say,  like  champagne.  That  depends,  however, 
on  what  kind  of  champagne.  It  is  not  true  to  say 


Any   Number   of  Days  177 

that  all  champagne  is  good.    AH  port  may  be 
good,  but  all  champagne  is  not. 

I  have  already  said  something  about  New 
York  architecture;  but  I  forget  what.  I  have  not 
got  the  back  part  of  my  manuscript  here.  In  any 
case,  whatever  I  said,  I  know  that  I  expressed 
admiration.  When  one  sees  a  fine  piece  of  mod- 
ern architecture  anywhere,  one  says,  as  a  rule,  it 
is  very  fine  for  a  modern  thing.  Now  one  does 
not  in  the  least  feel  tempted  to  say  any  such 
thing  about  the  Pennsylvania  Railroad  Station 
or  Mr.  J.  Pierpont  Morgan's  library.  One  feels — 
at  least  I  feel  —  that  whenever  and  wherever  these 
two  masterpieces  had  been  made,  they  would 
legitimately  have  been  ranked  with  the  world's 
best.  Had  Pheidias  designed  the  Pennsylvania 
Railway  Station,  he  might  have  been  proud. 
By  the  way,  Pheidias  was  n't  an  architect,  but 
only  a  decorator;  well,  let  us  say  the  best  great 
architect  of  the  best  period,  whoever  he  was. 
The  striking  thing  about  these  buildings  is,  to 


178  Round   the  World  in 

my  mind,  the  fact  that  they  are  modern,  but 
untainted  with  the  influence  of  that  horrible 
thing  called  "art  nouveau,"  "modern  style," 
and  various  other  names.  A  style  which,  by 
the  way,  is  German.  It  was  born  in  Munich. 
Its  parent  on  the  male  side  was  Japanese,  on  the 
female  side  a  bastard  descendant  of  William 
Morris  via  Maple.  It  was  brought  up  in  Ger- 
many, fostered  by  what  are  called  decadent 
artists.  These  are  artists  whose  work  is  a  mix- 
ture of  beer  and  sausage  and  Aubrey  Beardsley. 
This  style  spread  with  incredible  rapidity  all 
over  Germany  and  reached  and  flooded  Russia, 
from  Moscow  to  Harbin,  and  from  St.  Peters- 
burg to  Odessa.  In  Moscow  it  has  produced  huge 
shops,  in  St.  Petersburg  likewise.  The  result  is 
not  pleasing.  It  is  full  of  useless  details:  orna- 
ments which  have  no  sense,  curves  and  twiddles 
which  have  no  meaning.  This  brings  me  to  what 
I  believe  is  the  secret  of  the  beauty  of  modern 
American  architecture.  It  is,  I  believe,  the  ab- 


Any   Number  of  Days  179 

sence  of  twiddles.  By  twiddles  I  mean  any  kind 
of  unnecessary  line,  curve,  moulding,  arabesque, 
or  ornament.  If  you  ever  have  had  any  dealings 
with  an  English  architect,  you  will  know  that 
when  he  brings  you  his  plan,  whether  for  the 
outside  or  the  inside  of  a  house,  it  will  be  full  of 
twiddles.  If  you  protest  —  if,  for  instance,  you 
say  you  consider  seven  mouldings  underneath 
the  cornice  on  the  ceiling  to  be  too  much  —  he 
will  say  it  is  necessary  in  order  to  break  the  line. 
This  is  n't  true.  Because  the  architects  of  an- 
cient times  did  not  find  it  necessary  to  "break 
the  line"  in  this  manner,  nor  do  the  architects 
of  modern  America.  But  that  they  do  not  is 
a  very  remarkable  fact  indeed.  It  is  probably 
unique  in  the  modern  world,  and  the  result  of 
it  is  magnificent  architecture. 

American  architecture  is  good  because  it  is 
based  on  common  sense.  The  worst  kind  of  archi- 
tecture is  that  which  is  based  on  nonsense.  By 
nonsense  I  mean  non-sense,  the  contrary  of 


i8o  Round   the   World  in 

sense.  The  kind  of  architecture  which  puts  in  a 
room  a  staircase  which  goes  nowhere  is  non-sense. 
All  the  finest  architecture  in  the  world  was  made 
for  a  definite  purpose  and  use,  and  made  to  suit 
that  purpose  and  use.  The  pyramids  of  Egypt 
had  a  use;  the  only  thing  is, nobody  knows  now 
what  it  was,  but  it  was  something  very  definite; 
of  that  we  can  be  certain  from  the  enormous 
care  which  was  taken  to  build  them  in  accordance 
with  certain  mathematical  calculations  and  ac- 
cording to  a  certain  disposition  and  conjunction 
of  the'stars,  the  latitude,  and  the  longitude.  The 
idea  that  they  were  simply  tombs  is,  I  believe, 
difficult  to  support.  But  whatever  the  purpose 
was,  we  can  be  certain  they  had  a  purpose.  They 
were  not  simply  staircases  leading  nowhere.  Now' 
the  Pennsylvania  Railway  Station  is  a  railway 
station,  and  the  architecture  is  subordinate  to 
its  use.  The  result  is  magnificent.  Nothing  would 
have  been  added  to  its  use  had  it  been  filled  with 
absurd  lines  and  curves,  twisted  flowers,  impos- 


Any   Number   of  Days  181 

sible  fruits  and  silly  claws;  and  nothing  would 
have  been  added  to  its  beauty. 

Then  there  are  the  skyscrapers.  These  are 
obviously  useful,  since  the  narrowness  of  the 
area  in  which  New  York  is  built  makes  it,  if  not 
necessary,  at  least  highly  desirable  to  economize 
as  much  space  as  possible,  and  since  it  is  impos- 
sible to  build  broadly,  the  only  way  to  acquire 
houseroom  is  to  build  skyward.  And  this  has 
been  done,  again  without  the  addition  on  the 
face  of  the  buildings  of  a  lot  of  unnecessary  ex- 
crescences and  ornaments.  Mr.  Pennell,  who  is 
an  artist  of  fame,  says  that  the  sight  of  the  sky- 
scraper, from  the  seas,  beats  Venice.  I  don't 
care  two  pins  for  comparisons,  for  what  seems 
to  me  amusing  and  appreciable  is  that  we  live 
in  a  world  so  rich  in  invention  and  so  various 
that  it  produces  and  contains  things  so  striking 
and  so  different  as  Venice  and  the  skyscrapers 
of  New  York.  That 's  what  we  ought  to  be  thank- 
ful for.  Another  useful  thing  which  seems  to  me 


182  Round   the  Wound  in 

to  result  in  a  spectacle  of  amazing  beauty  is 
the  illuminated  advertisements  on  Broadway  at 
night.  There,  by  their  quantity  and  their  quality, 
they  compose  a  fairy  city  which  is  constantly 
changing  —  a  city  of  stars,  glow-worms,  fire- 
flies, and  Roman  candles.  Just  the  right  thing  to 
light  up  a  street  which  is  almost  exclusively 
devoted,  at  night,  to  theatres,  restaurants,  and 
places  of  amusement. 

Is  America  comfortable?  I  have  already  said 
something  about  the  trains;  but  since  writing 
that  I  have  been  for  two  long  journeys  in  the 
Orient  Express.  I  suppose  the  Orient  Express 
professes  to  represent  and  embody  the  acme  of 
human  luxury  in  the  way  of  European  travelling. 
It  certainly  represents,  to  my  mind,  the  acme 
of  human  discomfort.  The  train  is  narrow.  It 
shakes.  The  restaurant  car  is  too  small,  and  the 
food  has  a  peculiar  nauseating  quality  which 
is  the  special  and  exclusive  invention  and  prop- 
erty of  the  International  Sleeping-Car  Company. 


Any   Number  of  Days  183 

The  curious  thing  is  that  the  food  is  the  same 
on  whatever  line  you  travel,  so  long  as  the  res- 
taurant car  belongs  to  the  International  Sleep- 
ing-Car Company.  It  does  not  matter  if  you 
are  travelling  on  the  Nord  Express,  the  Sud 
Express,  or  the  Orient  Express,  you  will  get 
exactly  the  same  dinner,  and  that  same  dinner 
will  have  the  same  taste  —  that  unique  taste 
you  find  nowhere  else  in  the  world.  And,  what 
is  more,  if  you  ever  feed  at  one  of  the  hotels  be- 
longing to  the  International  Sleeping-Car  Com- 
pany, you  will  even  there  find  the  same  meal  and 
the  same  taste  to  it,  the  same  taste  pervading 
all  the  dishes  —  a  peculiar  kind  of  staleness, 
something  slightly  rancid  and  altogether  unap- 
petizing. One  wonders  who  invented  it  and  by 
what  manner  and  means  it  was  made  universal. 
On  the  Trans-Siberian  Railway,  which  goes  from 
Moscow  to  Vladivostok,  on  certain  days  of  the 
week  there  is  a  dining-car  belonging  to  the  Inter- 
national Sleeping-Car  Company,  and  on  other 


184  Round   the  World  in 

days  there  is  a  dining-car  belonging  to  the  State. 
In  the  car  belonging  to  the  State  you  get  good, 
ordinary  food ;  the  same  kind  of  food  as  you  can 
get  at  a  hotel  or  a  station  buffet;  but  in  the  Inter- 
national Sleeping-Car  Company's  dining-car  you 
get  the  same  old  meal  and  the  same  old  taste. 
When  I  last  travelled  on  the  Orient  Express, 
I  was  thinking  the  whole  time,  which  is  the 
most  comfortable  or  the  most  uncomfortable, 
that  or  an  American  train.  And  I  made  the 
following  schedule  of  advantages  and  disadvant- 
ages. 

Advantages  of  the  Orient  Express  over  an 
American  express  train:  — 

(1)  You  have  a  compartment  to  yourself  or, 
at  the  worst,  shared  with  one  other. 

(2)  You  can  smoke  where  you  like. 

(3)  You  have  a  washing-place  opening  off  of 
your  compartment. 

Advantages  of  the  American  express  over  the 
Orient  Express :  — 


UNDRESSING   IN   THE   BERTH   OF  AN   AMERICAN   CAR   IS  AN 
ACROBATIC    FEAT 


Any   Number  of  Days  185 

(1)  Your  bed,  when  you  are  once  in  it,  is  much 
broader  and  more  comfortable. 

(2)  The  food  is  incomparably  better. 

(3)  There  is  a  constant  supply  of  iced  water 
within  reach. 

Disadvantages  of  the  Orient  Express:  — 

(1)  The  bed  is  narrow.   A  hard  pillow  is  put 
under  the  mattress  so  that  it  catches  you 
in  the  small  of  the  back.    If  you  take  it 
away,  your  head  sinks  into  a  draughty 
hole  between  the  wall  and  the  mattress. 
The  blanket  is  folded  double,  so  that  it  is 
impossible  to  cover  yourself  or  the  bed 
with  it  entirely.   If  you  unfold  it  and  use 
it  single  it  is  too  thin  to  protect  you  from 
the  cold. 

(2)  You  can  smoke  in  your  compartment,  it 
is  true,  but  if  you  want  for  a  change  to 
smoke  in  the  smoking  compartment,  you 
will  find  the  accommodations  insufficient 
and  unsatisfactory. 


i86  Round   the  World  in 

(3)  There  is  no  supply  of  newspapers. 
Disadvantages  of  an  American  express:  — 

(1)  You  have  to  wash  in  public.    Passengers 
often  use  the  washing-room  as  smoking- 
room  in  the  morning  and  sit  in  it  smoking 
cigars,  while  you  have  to  shave.    Some 
people  find  it  quite  impossible  to  shave 
in  public.  Shaving  even  in  private  makes 
them  nervous,  but  shaving  in  public  is  for 
them  a  positive  impossibility. 

(2)  Undressing  in  the  berth  of  an  American 
car  is  an  acrobatic  feat. 

(3)  You  are  at  the  mercy  of  the  coloured  man 
who  looks  after  you.  Either  he  bullies  you 
or  he  does  n't;  but  if  he  does  n't  he  is  gen- 
erally slack  and  does  n't  look  after  you 
and  your  things.    He  makes  up  for  ineffi- 
ciency by  an  exaggerated  familiarity. 

There  —  that  seems  to  me  to  be  a  very  im- 
partial schedule  —  the  conclusion  being  that 
travelling  on  the  Orient  Express  or  on  an 


Any   Number  of  Days  187 

American  express  is  equally  uncomfortable. 
The  truth  is  that  all  railway  travelling  is  very 
uncomfortable  anyhow.  As  Mr.  H.  G.  Wells 
printed  somewhere,  railway  travelling  has  n't 
really  improved  since  the  first  trains  were  in- 
vented. The  same  essentials  of  discomfort  re- 
main: the  narrowness,  the  dirt,  the  stuffiness, 
the  vibration  of  the  car.  The  car  has  not  im- 
proved. The  Pullman  car  is  a  more  ingenious 
arrangement  than  the  European  car  for  the  train, 
but  it  is  not  more  comfortable  for  the  passen- 
ger. What  surprises  me  now  is  the  things  I  re- 
member Americans  telling  me  about  American 
trains  before  I  went  to  America.  I  remember 
being  told  by  them  that  American  trains  were 
full  of  hot  and  cold  baths,  which  you  could  jump 
into  at  any  minute  ;  that  there  was  no  difference 
in  being  on  a  train  or  in  a  club ;  that  they  were 
more  comfortable  than  the  best  hotel  and  more 
luxurious  than  the  fastest  liners;  that  the  best 
European  cars  would  be  considered  to  belong 


i88  Round   the  World  in 

to  the  fourth  class  in  America.  How  different 
this  is  from  what  I  have  heard  Americans  say 
about  American  trains  when  they  were  them- 
selves on  the  train  in  America! 

With  regard  to  baggage,  I  throw  a  large  bou- 
quet at  the  check  system.  It  is  infinitely  more 
convenient  than  the  European  system,  which 
I  do  not  think  has  a  single  advantage,  except 
the  doubtful  one  of  its  being  easier  for  you  to 
lose  your  boxes.  In  England,  for  instance,  there 
is  a  special  profession  to  which  certain  people 
belong  who  are  called  "  Peter-claimers,"  and 
whose  whole  business  in  life  is  to  steal  other  peo- 
ple's baggage  from  railway  stations.  They  drive 
to  the  station  with  an  empty  bag  or  with  a  bag 
full  of  stones.  They  put  down  their  bag  next 
to  that  of  a  banker,  which  they  know  to  be  full 
of  gold,  or  next  to  that  of  a  duchess,  which  they 
know  to  be  full  of  pearls,  rubies,  and  pink  to- 
pazes. Then  in  their  hurry  they  make  a  mistake, 
and,  leaving  their  bag,  they  take  away  that  of 


Any   Number   of  Days  189 

the  banker  or  the  duchess  and  drive  home  with 
it  and  never  give  it  back,  unless  the  reward 
offered  be  larger  than  the  value  of  the  contents 
of  the  bag  and  no  questions  be  asked.  This  is 
called  "Peter-claiming/* 

Another  and  more  complicated  way  of  doing 
it  is  this:  You  —  the  crook  —  that  is  to  say,  the 
"  Peter-claimer "  —  have  a  particular  kind  of 
bag  made  which  when  placed  on  the  top  of  any 
other  kind  of  bag  opens  and  swallows  it  up.  I 
don't  see  how  "  Peter-claimers "  could  possibly 
do  their  work  in  a  country  where  the  check 
system  prevails.  However,  human  ingenuity 
is  boundless,  and  doubtless  a  way  would  be 
found. 

An  American  said  to  me,  when  I  was  travelling 
not  long  ago,  that  in  America  matters  such  as 
travelling,  living  in  hotels,  etc.,  had  been  reduced 
to  perfection.  I  don't  believe  this  to  be  true. 
What  I  do  think  is  very  often  true  is  that  the 
means  has  been  perfected  without  any  regard 


igo  Round   the  World  in 

having  been  paid  to  the  end.  The  Pullman  car 
is  an  example  in  point.  If  you  regard  the  Pull- 
man car  as  a  device  for  travelling,  a  machine 
for  holding  as  many  people  as  possible  and  econo- 
mizing the  maximum  of  space  in  so  doing,  it  is 
perfect.  But  as  a  vehicle  for  human  beings  to 
travel  in  in  comfort  it  is  imperfect.  It  contains 
great  possibilities  for  discomfort  quite  apart 
from  the  coloured  gentleman,  who  may  or  may 
not  make  life  a  hell  to  you  during  the  journey. 
What  is  often  left  out  in  the  calculations  of  in- 
genious devices  of  means  of  luxury  is  the  human 
element,  the  human  being.  It  is  no  good  having 
an  elevator  that  goes  at  a  speed  of  five  hundred 
miles  an  hour,  if  it  makes  you  sick.  It  is  no  good 
having  a  train  that  goes  so  fast  that  you  can 
neither  read  by  day  nor  sleep  by  night  in  it.  It 
is  no  good  having  a  theatre  so  large  that  you 
cannot  hear  the  actors  speak.  It  is  no  good  hav- 
ing a  meal  so  rich  that  your  appetite  has  gone 
after  the  first  course. 


Any   Number   of  Days  191 

I  remember  somebody  once  saying  to  me  a 
long  time  ago  that  the  Americans  had  attained 
to  luxury  by  jumping  over  comfort.  I  think 
there  is  a  certain  amount  of  truth  in  this,  and 
yet  it  would  be  foolish  to  call  American  hotels 
uncomfortable.  They  are  not  uncomfortable. 
Only  there  is  this  to  be  said:  That  to  some  people 
all  hotel  life  is  uncomfortable.  They  hate  living 
in  a  crowd.  They  hate  bustle,  confusion,  noise, 
the  arrival  and  departure  of  people,  etc.  And 
there  is  certainly  more  hotel  life  in  America  than 
in  other  countries.  And  yet  what  a  saving  to 
the  nerves,  and  to  the  temper,  are  so  many  of 
the  devices  and  the  arrangments  in  American 
hotels.  The  telephone,  for  instance:  if  you  want 
a  nice  test  of  temper,  try  to  get  a  number  at  the 
Hotel  Cecil  in  London;  or,  better  still,  spend  a 
happy  morning  in  ringing  up  people  on  the  tele- 
phone in  Paris.  In  America  it  is  either  done  for 
you  at  once  or  you  know  it  cannot  be  done, 
and  the  matter  is  settled.  Hotel  life  in  America 


192  Round   the  World  in 

seems  to  me  infinitely  better  organized  than  in 
any  other  country  in  the  world,  with  the  possible 
exception  of  China.  Because  when  you  order  a 
room  at  a  Chinese  hotel,  in  a  small  Chinese  town, 
the  room  is  built  for  you  while  you  wait;  you 
choose  the  style  of  room,  and  the  paper,  the  car- 
peting, and  all  the  furniture  are  put  in  during 
the  day. 

Another  thing  which  is  an  immense  saving 
of  time  and  temper  in  an  American  hotel  is  the 
way  in  which  it  is  possible  to  find  out  whether 
or  not  some  friend  of  yours  is  staying  there, 
without  having  to  wait  the  best  part  of  an  hour, 
and  without  people  being  sent  off  in  different 
directions,  who  come  back  much  later  on  with 
contradictory  reports. 

If,  though,  on  the  one  hand,  in  anything  that 
concerns  machinery  contrivance,  organization 
is  better  in  America  than  elsewhere,  anything 
that  concerns  the  personal  service  of  human 
beings  is  probably  less  good,  owing  to  the  simple 


TRYING   TO   GET    A   NUMBER   AT   THE    HOTEL   CECIL 


Any   Number  of  Days  193 

fact  that  there  is  no  servant  class  in  America; 
that  servants  in  America  are  either  coloured  men 
or  foreigners.  This  is  a  factor  which  makes  for 
discomfort,  because  the  existence  of  a  great  mass 
of  human  beings  who  have  nothing  else  to  do 
but  attend  to  the  wants  of  other  human  beings, 
obviously  conduces  to  the  comfort  of  those  peo- 
ple whose  wants  are  being  attended  to.  For  in- 
stance, it  is  more  comfortable  to  arrive  at  a  rail- 
way station  in  Russia,  where  there  are  about 
twenty  willing  railway  porters  to  every  traveller, 
than  it  is  to  arrive  at  4  A.M.,  in  Paris,  where  there 
is  only  one  unwilling  and  extremely  rude  porter 
to  attend  to  all  the  travellers.  It  is  obviously 
more  comfortable  to  be  certain  of  finding  some 
one  to  carry  a  heavy  bag  for  you,  if  you  are  going 
into  the  suburbs  by  rail,  than  to  be  certain  that 
you  will  have  to  carry  it  yourself.  On  the  other 
hand,  the  absence  of  a  servant  class  speaks  well 
for  the  spirit  of  independence  and  initiative  in 
the  country.  At  least  I  suppose  it  does.  Equality 


194  Round   the   World  in 

is  a  good  thing,  but  it  can  be  abused  just  as  much 
as  its  brother,  liberty. 

We  all  know  the  acts  of  tyranny  which  have 
been  committed,  and  are  committed  daily,  in 
the  name  of  liberty.  In  the  same  way  crime  and 
misdemeanors  are  committed  in  the  name  of 
equality.  In  order  to  show  you  that  he  is  as  good 
as  his  master,  Jack  often  treats  his  master  as 
his  inferior. 

If  I  had  to  compare  the  comforts  of  life  in 
England  and  America,  and  to  sum  up  the  matter 
briefly,  I  should  say  as  far  as  life  in  public  is  con- 
cerned —  that  is  to  say,  life  in  hotels,  restau- 
rants, clubs,  and,  perhaps,  trains  (in  England  the 
distances  being  short,  the  proposition  is  hardly 
the  same),  and  certainly  railway  stations  and 
buffets  and  all  kinds  of  bars  —  everything  you 
get  in  America  is  superior,  but  as  far  as  life  in 
private  is  concerned  —  country  houses,  cot- 
tages, farms,  town  houses,  flats,  and  rooms  - 
the  comfort  in  England  is  incomparably  greater. 


Any   Number   ofDays  195 

Of  course  some  people  say  that  life  in  private  - 
home  life  —  does  not  exist  in  America  at  all. 
But  that  is  the  kind  of  generalization  I  dis- 
trust. Personally  I  think  a  small  private  house 
in  England  is  a  much  more  comfortable  affair 
than  a  small  private  house  in  America.  On  the 
other  hand,  I  think  an  American  bar  is  much 
more  comfortable  and  cheerful  than  our  English 
public  house.  Again,  I  think  there  is  a  great 
difference  between  the  English  country  house, 
owned  by  the  English  rich,  and  that  owned  in 
England  by  the  American  rich.  In  the  homes 
of  the  American  rich  you  will  rarely  find  a 
room  in  which  it  is  possible  to  sit  down  with 
comfort. 

American  clubs,  again,  are  far  more  human 
and  cheerful  than  English  clubs.  Anything  more 
depressing  than  the  average  English  club  can 
scarcely  be  imagined:  a  series  of  rooms  in  which 
old  men  in  different  corners  grunt,  frown,  and 
snore  —  the  rest  is  silence.  In  American  clubs 


196  Round   the  World  in 

you  feel  that  everybody  is  alive  and  that  people 
go  to  clubs  not  to  avoid  the  society  of  their  fel- 
low creatures,  but,  on  the  contrary,  to  enjoy  it. 
And  that,  after  all,  was  the  origin  and  the  initial 
purpose  of  all  clubs,  because  if  a  man  wants  soli- 
tude he  can  stop  at  home.  But  I  forgot  —  some 
men  are  married.  That,  of  course,  certainly 
changes  the  question. 

In  the  category  of  human  comforts  belongs 
the  food  question.  I  don't  suppose  it  is  necessary 
at  this  time  of  the  day  to  sing  the  praises  of  the 
food  you  get  in  America.  America  has  a  national 
food,  containing  a  quantity  of  delicious  dishes 
you  can  get  only  in  America,  and  Americans 
are,  thank  heavens,  not  unconscious  of  the  fact. 
England  has  a  national  food  also;  but,  alas! 
how  rarely  you  get  English  food,  good  English 
food,  in  England,  and  how  often  you  get  a  shock- 
ingly bad  imitation  of  French  food  —  a  succes- 
sion of  entrees  which  a  wit  once  said  were  like 
tepid  lawn-tennis  balls.  How  excellent  a  thing, 


Any  Number   of  Days  197 

on  the  other  hand,  is  a  fried  sole,  toasted  cheese 
(like  that  you  get  at  the  "  Cheshire  Cheese "), 
English  cold  beef,  English  bacon,  roast  grouse, 
and  currant-and-raspberry  tart.  These  are  all 
things  which  I  believe  you  can  get  nowhere  out 
of  England;  nowhere  meat  at  such  a  peculiar 
pitch  of  perfection. 

jThere  was  once  upon  a  time  an  English  states- 
man (it  was  either  Lord  Melbourne  or  Lord 
Palmerston)  who  asked  a  schoolboy  what  his 
ideal  luncheon  would  be.  The  boy  thought  for 
a  long  time  and  said,  "Roast  duck,  with  peas 
and  new  potatoes,  and  then  some  raspberry -and- 
black-currant  tart."  And  the  statesman,  struck 
by  the  extraordinary  wisdom  of  the  reply,  pro- 
phesied a  great  future  for  the  boy,  who  was  none 
other  than  —  well,  I  quite  forget.  But  it  was 
not  Winston  Churchill. 

It  is  on  record,  I  believe,  that  Macaulay  gave 
a  house-warming  dinner  to  two  friends  in  Albany, 
and  after  expending  much  thought  and  all  the 


198  Round  the  World  in 

resources  of  his  immense  erudition  on  the  sub- 
ject, came  to  the  conclusion  that  the  following 
would  be  the  ideal  menu  for  the  occasion.  The 
season  was  autumn. 

Mulligatawny  Soup 
Broiled  Turbot 
Roast  Partridge 
Toasted  Cheese 

I  once  asked  a  Frenchman  who,  at  the  time, 
was  supposed  to  have,  and  rightly,  the  best  cook 
in  Paris,  where  and  what  was  the  best  dinner  he 
had  ever  had.  He  said  the  best  dinner  he  had 
ever  had  was  in  a  small  country  house  in  Eng- 
land and  had  consisted  of  a  fried  sole  and  roast 
grouse. 

If  I  were  Emperor  of  Rome,  and  had  at  my 
disposal  the  manual  labor  of  ancient  Rome,  the 
skilled  cooks  of  all  nations,  and  the  railway  serv- 
ice of  the  world,  and  if  I  liked  to  give  a  perfect 
dinner,  I  should  arrange  it  thus. 


Any   Number   of  Days  199 

The  season  is,  let  us  say,  autumn  or  winter. 

A  cocktail  made  by  an  American 

Hors  d'ceuvre,  consisting  of 
fresh  caviare  from  Russia,  prawns  from  Seville 

Oysters:  Blue  Points 

Soup:  Bortsch,  made  by  a  peasant  of  Little  Russia 

Cold  lobster 

Whitebait 

Veau  £  la  bourgeoise,  cooked  by  a 

Frenchwoman  from  a  farm 

Roast  grouse  —  Corn  on  the  cob 

Salad,  made  by  a  Frenchman 

Marrow  bones 

Toasted  cheese 

A  German  apple  tart 

Mince  pies  —  Indigestion 

That  is,  perhaps,  enough  about  food  and  the 
comforts  of  life.  However  the  comforts  of  life 
in  America  may  stand  with  regard  to  those  in 
other  countries,  they  are  in  America  very  re- 
markable, very  characteristic,  and  worthy  of 
study  and  still  more  of  experience. 

THE  END 


Ofte  ftitersi&e 

CAMBRIDGE  .  MASSACHUSETTS 
U   .   S   .  A 


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